He plunged into a correspondence as various as it was voluminous.  There were letters of abuse, of sympathy, of friendship, of remonstrance, of reproof.  There were offers of help, money, advice, suggestions, and advertisements.  There were small sums of money, and a few larger ones.  He was amused to find that a great many people addressed him as an infidel—­the little mission preacher had certainly been busy, and everywhere it seemed to be understood that his enterprise was an anti-Christian one.  And finally there was a long packet, marked as having been delivered by hand, and inside—­without a word of any sort, on a single clue as to its sender—­a bank-note for one thousand pounds.

Brooks passed it over to his companion, who saw the amount with a little start.

“A thousand pounds—­not even registered—­in a plain envelope.  And you have no idea from whom it came?

“None whatever,” Brooks answered.

The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back.  He looked at the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks—­his dark thoughtful face suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement.  In his own mind he was making a thumb-nail sketch of these things.  There was material for one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved.  He wished Brooks good-night.

“I’m much obliged for all you’ve told me,” he said.  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop in now and again down at Stepney.  I believe that this is going to be rather a big thing for you.”

Brooks smiled.

“So do I,” he answered.  “Come whenever you like.”

Brooks sank into an easy-chair, conscious at last of a more than ordinary exhaustion.  He looked at the pile of newspapers at his feet, the sea of correspondence on the table—­his thoughts travelled back to the bare, dusty room in Stepney, with its patient, white-faced crowd of men and women and children.  Perhaps, after all, then he had found his life’s work here.  If so he need surely regret no longer his lost political opportunities.  Yet in his heart he knew that it had been from the House of Commons he had meant to force home his schemes.  To work outside had always seemed to him to be labouring under a disadvantage, to be missing the true and best opportunity of impressing upon the law-makers of the country their true responsibilities.  But of that there was no longer any hope.  Of the House of Lords he thought only with a cold shiver.  No, political life was denied to him.  He must do his best for the furtherance of his work outside.

He fell asleep to awake in the cold grey of the morning, stiff and cramped, and cold to the bone.  Stamping up and down the room in a vigorous attempt to restore his lost circulation, he noticed as he passed the corner of the table a still unopened letter addressed to him in a familiar handwriting.  He took it over to the window, and, glancing at the faintly-sketched coronet on time back, turned it over and broke the seal.