Horlock drove away, a discomfited man, jubilant in his thoughts of freedom.  Tallente was met by Nora in the little hall—­Nora, who had kept away from the house at Stephen’s earnest request.

“Stephen has done it,” Tallente announced triumphantly.  “He made the only speech worth listening to.  Horlock crumbled to pieces.  Miller only got fourteen of the ragtail end of his lot to vote with him.  We won by forty votes.  Horlock brought me here.  He is to have a formal meeting of the party.  He’ll offer his resignation on Thursday.”

“It’s wonderful!” Nora exclaimed.

“Stephen will be sent for,” Tallente went on.  “That, of course, is a foregone conclusion.  Nora, I wish you’d make him see that it’s his duty to form a Government.  There isn’t any reason why he should pass it on to me.  I can lead in the Commons if he wants me to, so far as the debates are concerned.  We are altering the procedure, as I dare say you know.  Half the government of the country will be done by committees.”

“It’s no use,” Nora replied.  “Stephen simply wouldn’t do it.  You must remember what you yourself said—­procedure will be altered.  So much of the government of the country will be done outside the House.  Stephen has everything mapped out.  You are going to be Prime Minister.”

Tallente left early and walked homeward by the least frequented ways.  A soft rain was falling, but the night was warm and a misty moon made fitful appearances.  The rain fell like little drops of silver around the lampposts.  There was scarcely a breath of wind and in Curzon Street the air was almost faint with the odour of spring bulbs from the window boxes.  Tallente yielded to an uncontrollable impulse.  He walked rather abruptly up Clarges Street, past his rooms, and paid a curious little visit, almost a pilgrimage, to the closed house in Charles Street.  It seemed to him that those drawn blinds, the dead-looking windows, the smokeless chimneys typified in melancholy fashion the empty chambers in his own heart.  Weeks had passed now and no word had come from Jane.  He pictured her still smarting under the sting of his brutal words.  Some of his phrases came back to his mind and he shivered with remorse.  If only—­He started.  It seemed for a moment as though history were about to repeat itself.  A great limousine had stolen up to the kerbstone and a woman in evening dress was leaning out.

“Mr. Tallente,” she called out, “do come and speak to me, please.”

Tallente approached at once.  In the dim light his heart gave a little throb.  He peered forward.  The woman laughed musically.  “I do believe that you have forgotten me,” she said, “I am Alice Mountgarron—­Jane’s sister.  I saw you there and I couldn’t help stopping for a moment.  Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Thank you so much,” he answered.  “My rooms are quite close by here in Clarges Street.”

“Get in, please, and I will take you there,” she ordered.  “Tell the man the number.  I want just one word with you.”