A sudden consciousness of the futility of his existence pierced the little cobbler like an icy wind.  He saw his own life, and a hundred million lives like his, swelling and breaking like bubbles on a dark ocean, unheeded, uncared for.

A newsboy passed along, clamouring “The Bow murderer, preparaitions for the hexecution!”

A terrible shudder shook the cobbler’s frame.  His eyes ranged sightlessly after the boy; the merciful tears filled them at last.

“The Cause of the People,” he murmured brokenly, “I believe in the Cause of the People.  There is nothing else.”

“Peter, come in to tea, you’ll catch cold,” said Mrs. Crowl.

Denzil went in to tea and Peter followed.

* * * * *

Meantime, round the house of the Home Secretary, who was in town, an ever-augmenting crowd was gathered, eager to catch the first whisper of a reprieve.

The house was guarded by a cordon of police, for there was no inconsiderable danger of a popular riot.  At times a section of the crowd groaned and hooted.  Once a volley of stones was discharged at the windows.  The newsboys were busy vending their special editions, and the reporters struggled through the crowd, clutching descriptive pencils, and ready to rush off to telegraph offices should anything “extra special” occur.  Telegraph boys were coming up every now and again with threats, messages, petitions, and exhortations from all parts of the country to the unfortunate Home Secretary, who was striving to keep his aching head cool as he went through the voluminous evidence for the last time and pondered over the more important letters which “The Greater Jury” had contributed to the obscuration of the problem.  Grodman’s letter in that morning’s paper shook him most; under his scientific analysis the circumstantial chain seemed forged of painted cardboard.  Then the poor man read the judge’s summing up, and the chain became tempered steel.  The noise of the crowd outside broke upon his ear in his study like the roar of a distant ocean.  The more the rabble hooted him, the more he essayed to hold scrupulously the scales of life and death.  And the crowd grew and grew, as men came away from their work.  There were many that loved the man who lay in the jaws of death, and a spirit of mad revolt surged in their breasts.  And the sky was grey, and the bleak night deepened, and the shadow of the gallows crept on.

Suddenly a strange inarticulate murmur spread through the crowd, a vague whisper of no one knew what.  Something had happened.  Somebody was coming.  A second later and one of the outskirts of the throng was agitated, and a convulsive cheer went up from it, and was taken up infectiously all along the street.  The crowd parted—­a hansom dashed through the centre.  “Grodman!  Grodman!” shouted those who recognised the occupant.  “Grodman!  Hurrah!” Grodman was outwardly calm and pale, but his eyes glittered; he waved his hand encouragingly