“This is no idle curiosity of mine,” he said.  “You know me better than that.  But the cause which is nearer my heart than life itself is at stake.  Brott, you are the people’s man, their promised redeemer.  Think of them, the toilers, the oppressed, God’s children, groaning under the iniquitous laws of generations of evil statesmanship.  It is the dawn of their new day, their faces are turned to you.  Man, can’t you hear them crying?  You can’t fail them.  You mustn’t.  I don’t know what is the matter with you, Brott, but away with it.  Free yourself, man.”

Brott sighed wearily, but already there was a change in him.  His face was hardening—­the lines in his face deepened.  Grahame continued hastily—­eagerly.

“Public men,” he said, “are always at the mercy of the halfpenny press, but you know, Brott, your appearance so often in Society lately has set men’s tongues wagging.  There is no harm done, but it is time to stop them.  You are right to want to understand these people.  You must go down amongst them.  It has been slumming in Mayfair for you, I know.  But have done with it now.  It is these people we are going to fight.  Let it be open war.  Let them hear your programme at Glasgow.  We don’t want another French Revolution, but it is going to be war against the drones, fierce, merciless war!  You must break with them, Brott, once and for ever.  And the time is now.”

Brott held out his hand across the table.  No one but this one man could have read the struggle in his face.

“You are right, Grahame.  I thank you.  I thank you as much for what you have left unsaid as for what you have said.  I was a fool to think of compromising.  Letheringham is a nerveless leader.  We should have gone pottering on for another seven years.  Thank God that you came when you did.  See here!”

He tossed him over a letter.  Grahame’s cheek paled as he read.

“Already!” he murmured.

Brott nodded.

“Read it!”

Grahame devoured every word.  His eyes lit up with excitement.

“My prophecy exactly,” he exclaimed, laying it down.  “It is as I said.  He cannot form the ministry without you.  His letter is abject.  He gives himself away.  It is an entreaty.  And your answer?”

“Has not yet gone,” Brott said.  “You shall write it yourself if you like.  I am thankful that you came when you did.”

“You were hesitating?” Grahame exclaimed.

“I was.”

Grahame looked at him in wonder, and Brott faced him sturdily.

“It seems like treason to you, Grahame!” he said.  “So it does to me now.  I want nothing in the future to come between us,” he continued more slowly, “and I should like if I can to expunge the memory of this interview.  And so I am going to tell you the truth.”  Grahame held out his hand.

“Don’t!” he said.  “I can forget without.”

Brott shook his head.