“Boys!” he roared, in his best Victoria Park voice, “listen to me.  This charge is a foul and damnable lie.”

“Bravo!” “Hear, hear!” “Hooray!” “It is!” was roared back at him from all parts of the room.  Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes, excited to the last degree.

“Boys!” Peter roared on, “you all know me.  I’m a plain man, and I want to know if it’s likely a man would murder his best friend.”

“No!” in a mighty volume of sound.

Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake’s popularity.  He stood on the platform, pale and anxious as his prisoner.

“And if he did, why didn’t they prove it the first time?”

“Hear, Hear!”

“And if they want to arrest him, why couldn’t they leave it till the ceremony was over?  Tom Mortlake’s not the man to run away.”

“Tom Mortlake!  Tom Mortlake!  Three cheers for Tom Mortlake!” “Hip, hip, hip, hooray!”

“Three groans for the police!” “Hoo!  Oo!  Oo!”

Wimp’s melodrama was not going well.  He felt like the author to whose ears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit.  He almost wished he had not followed the curtain-raiser with his own stronger drama.  Unconsciously the police, scattered about the hall, drew together.  The people on the platform knew not what to do.  They had all risen and stood in a densely packed mass.  Even Mr. Gladstone’s speech failed him in circumstances so novel.  The groans died away; the cheers for Mortlake rose and swelled and fell and rose again.  Sticks and umbrellas were banged and rattled, handkerchiefs were waved, the thunder deepened.  The motley crowd still surging about the hall took up the cheers, and for hundreds of yards around people were going black in the face out of mere irresponsible enthusiasm.  At last Tom waved his hand—­the thunder dwindled, died.  The prisoner was master of the situation.

Grodman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair, a curious mocking Mephistophelian glitter about his eyes, his lips wreathed into a half smile.  There was no hurry for him to get Denzil Cantercot arrested now.  Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder.  In Grodman’s heart there was a great, glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews to win in a famous match, and has heard the judge’s word.  He felt almost kindly to Denzil now.

Tom Mortlake spoke.  His face was set and stony.  His tall figure was drawn up haughtily to its full height.  He pushed the black mane back from his forehead with a characteristic gesture.  The fevered audience hung upon his lips—­the men at the back leaned eagerly forward—­the reporters were breathless with fear lest they should miss a word.  What would the great labour leader have to say at this supreme moment?