“Oliver!” The voice was strong.  He went back to her and she received him with sparkling eyes, her hand on Broadstone’s letter.

“Oliver, this is what killed him!  Lord Broadstone must bear the responsibility.”

And hurriedly, incoherently, she explained that the letter from Lord Broadstone was an urgent appeal to Ferrier’s patriotism and to his personal friendship for the writer; begging him for the sake of party unity, and for the sake of the country, to allow the Prime Minister to cancel the agreement of the day before; to accept a peerage and the War Office in lieu of the Exchequer and the leadership of the House.  The Premier gave a full account of the insurmountable difficulties in the way of the completion of the Government, which had disclosed themselves during the course of the afternoon and evening following his interview with Ferrier.  Refusals of the most unexpected kind, from the most unlikely quarters; letters and visits of protest from persons impossible to ignore—­most of them, no doubt, engineered by Lord Philip; “finally the newspapers of this morning—­especially the article in the Herald, which you will have seen before this reaches you—­all these, taken together, convince me that if I cannot persuade you to see the matter in the same light as I do—­and I know well that, whether you accept or refuse, you will put the public advantage first—­I must at once inform her Majesty that my attempt to construct a Government has broken down.”

Marsham followed her version of the letter as well as he could; and as she turned the last page, he too perceived the pencilled writing, which was not Broadstone’s.  This she did not offer to communicate; indeed, she covered it at once with her hand.

“Yes, I suppose it was the shock,” he said, in a low voice.  “But it was not Broadstone’s fault.  It was no one’s fault.”

Lady Lucy flushed and looked up.

“That man Barrington!” she said, vehemently.  “Oh, if I had never had him in my house!”

Oliver made no reply.  He sat beside her, staring at the grass.  Suddenly Lady Lucy touched him on the knee.

“Oliver!”—­her voice was gasping and difficult—­“Oliver!—­you had nothing to do with that?”

“With what, mother?”

“With the Herald article.  I read it this morning.  But I laughed at it!  John’s letter arrived at the same moment—­so happy, so full of plans—­”

“Mother!—­you don’t imagine that a man in Ferrier’s position can be upset by an article in a newspaper?”

“I don’t know—­the Herald was so important—­I have heard John say so.  Oliver!”—­her face worked painfully—­“I know you talked with that man that night.  You didn’t—­”

“I didn’t say anything of which I am ashamed,” he said, sharply, raising his head.

His mother looked at him in silence.  Their eyes met in a flash of strange antagonism—­as though each accused the other.