Already he had swung the balance.  Dale could see that he would not be resisted.  And as the great man sat talking—­chatting, one might almost term it—­he seemed to be taking out of the atmosphere every element of discomfort, all the passionate excitement, the hot throbs of indignation, the cold tremors of fear.  Dale felt his muscles recovering tone, his legs stiffening themselves, his blood circulating richly and freely.

“You have here,” said Mr. Barradine, “a man of unblemished reputation, who, acting obviously from conscientious motives, has in the exercise of his judgment done so and so.  Now, admitting for the sake of argument, that he has done wrong, are you to punish him for an error of judgment?  We do not, however, admit that it was an error."...

Dale looked dogged and stern.  He had been on the point of saying, “I never will admit it;” but the words would not come out.  He must not interrupt.  This was Heaven-sent advocacy.

Mr. Barradine went on quietly and grandly.  In truth what he said now was almost what had been said by the authorities at Rodhaven—­good intentions, over-zeal, a mistake, if you care to call it so;—­but from these lips it fell on Dale’s ear as soothing music.  Mr. Barradine might say whatever he pleased:  and the man he was defending would not object.

“And now if I show the edge of the little private ax that I myself have to grind!” Mr. Barradine laughed.  They all laughed.  “Our member—­we agree in politics; but, well, you know, he and I do not altogether hit it off.  We are both of us getting older than we were—­and perhaps we both suffer from swollen head.  It’s the prevailing malady of the period.”

Sir John laughed gaily.  “I don’t think you show any marked symptoms of it.  But I can’t answer for what’s-his-name.”

“Well;” and Mr. Barradine made his first gesture—­just a wave of the right hand.  “One can’t have two kings at Brentford.  And honestly I shall feel that you have given me a smack in the face, if—­”

“Oh, my dear sir!”

Then they sent Dale out of the room.  Really it seemed that they had forgotten his presence, or they might have banished him before.  It was the Colonel who suddenly appeared to remember that he was still standing over there by the window.

He waited in a large empty room, and the time passed slowly.  It was the luncheon hour, and far and near he heard the footsteps of clerks going to and coming from the midday meal.  Bigwigs no doubt would take their luncheon privately, in small groups, here and there, all over the building.  He too was getting very hungry.

An hour passed, an hour and a half, two hours; and then he was again summoned to the other room.  There was no one in it except the secretary—­looking hot and red after a copious repast, speaking jovially and familiarly, and seeming altogether more common and less important than when under the restraining influence of bigwigs.