As regarded the despatch of the volors to Rome, he had assented by silence, as had the rest of the Council.  That was, Snowford had said, a judicial punitive act, regrettable but necessary.  Peace, in this instance, could not be secured except on terms of war—­or rather, since war was obsolete—­by the sternness of justice.  These Catholics had shown themselves the avowed enemies of society; very well, then society must defend itself, at least this once.  Man was still human.  And Oliver had listened and said nothing.

As he passed in one of the Government volors over London on his way home, he had caught more than one glimpse of what was proceeding beneath him.  The streets were as bright as day, shadowless and clear in the white light, and every roadway was a crawling serpent.  From beneath rose up a steady roar of voices, soft and woolly, punctuated by cries.  From here and there ascended the smoke of burning; and once, as he flitted over one of the great squares to the south of Battersea, he had seen as it were a scattered squadron of ants running as if in fear or pursuit....  He knew what was happening....  Well, after all, man was not yet perfectly civilised.

He did not like to think of what awaited him at home.  Once, about five hours earlier, he had listened to his wife’s voice through the telephone, and what he had heard had nearly caused him to leave all and go to her.  Yet he was scarcely prepared for what he found.

As he came into the sitting-room, there was no sound, except that far-away hum from the seething streets below.  The room seemed strangely dark and cold; the only light that entered was through one of the windows from which the curtains were withdrawn, and, silhouetted against the luminous sky beyond, was the upright figure of a woman, looking and listening....

He pressed the knob of the electric light; and Mabel turned slowly towards him.  She was in her day-dress, with a cloak thrown over her shoulders, and her face was almost as that of a stranger.  It was perfectly colourless, her lips were compressed and her eyes full of an emotion which he could not interpret.  It might equally have been anger, terror or misery.

She stood there in the steady light, motionless, looking at him.

For a moment he did not trust himself to speak.  He passed across to the window, closed it and drew the curtains.  Then he took that rigid figure gently by the arm.

“Mabel,” he said, “Mabel.”

She submitted to be drawn towards the sofa, but there was no response to his touch.  He sat down and looked up at her with a kind of despairing apprehension.

“My dear, I am tired out,” he said.

Still she looked at him.  There was in her pose that rigidity that actors simulate; yet he knew it for the real thing.  He had seen that silence once or twice before in the presence of a horror—­once at any rate, at the sight of a splash of blood on her shoe.