“I can neither better nor weaken my cause by remaining,” he said.  “Only let this be my parting word to you.  Upon my soul as an Englishman, I believe that if you send out those telegrams to-night, if you use your hideous and deadly weapon against me and the Government, I believe that you will be guilty of this country’s ruin, as you certainly will of her dishonour.  You have the example of Russia before you.  And I will tell you this, too, which take into your hearts.  There isn’t one of those men who are marching, perhaps to-night, perhaps tomorrow, to a possible death, who would thank you for trying, to save their lives or bodies at the expense of England’s honour.  Those about to die would be your sternest critics.  I can say no more.”

Julian walked with the Premier towards the door.

“Mr. Stenson,” he declared, “you have said just what could be said from your point of view, and God knows, even now, who is in the right!  You are looking at the future with a very full knowledge of many things of which we are all ignorant.  You have, quite naturally, too, the politician’s hatred of the methods these people propose.  I myself am inclined to think that they are a little hasty.”

“Orden,” Mr. Stenson replied sternly, “I did not come to you to-night as a politician.  I have spoken as a man and an Englishman, as I speak to you now.  For the love of your country and her honour, use your influence with these people.  Stop those telegrams.  Work for delay at any cost.  There’s something inexplicable, sinister, about the whole business.  Freistner may be an honest man, but I’ll swear that he hasn’t the influence or the position that these people have been led to believe.  And as for Nicholas Fenn—­”

The Prime Minister paused.  Julian waited anxiously.

“It is my belief,” the former concluded deliberately, “that thirty seconds in the courtyard of the Tower, with his back to the light, would about meet his case.”

They parted at the door, and Julian returned to his seat, uneasy and perplexed.  Around the Council table voices were raised in anger.  Fenn, who was sitting moodily with folded arms, his chair drawn a little back from the table, scowled at him as he took his place.  Furley, who had been whispering to the Bishop, turned towards Julian.

“It seems,” he announced, “that the originals of most of Freistner’s communications have been destroyed.”

“And why not?” Fenn demanded passionately.  “Why should I keep letters which would lay a rope around my neck any day they were found?  You all know as well as I do that we’ve been expecting the police to raid the place ever since we took it.”

“I am a late comer,” Julian observed, “but surely some of you others have seen the original communications?”

Thomas Evans spoke up from the other end of the table,—­a small, sturdily built man, a great power in South Wales.