But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing the small villas and little grey workmen’s houses outside the town of Bucklandbury.

“Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun’s headquarters.  Shall I drop you at the enemy’s, Mr. Courtier?  Stop, please, Frith.”

And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which was inscribed with extraordinary vigour:  “Chilcox for Bucklandbury.”

Hobbling into the Committee-room of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which smelled of paint, Courtier took with him the scented memory of youth, and ambergris, and Harris tweed.

In that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest of whom, endowed with little grey eyes, a stubbly beard, and that mysterious something only found in those who have been mayors, rose at once and came towards him.

“Mr. Courtier, I believe,” he said bluffly.  “Glad to see you, sir.  Most distressed to hear of this outrage.  Though in a way, it’s done us good.  Yes, really.  Grossly against fair play.  Shouldn’t be surprised if it turned a couple of hundred votes.  You carry the effects of it about with you, I see.”

A thin, refined man, with wiry hair, also came up, holding a newspaper in his hand.

“It has had one rather embarrassing effect,” he said.  “Read this

          “’Outrageon A distinguished visitor.

          “‘LordMiltoun’s evening adventure.’”

Courtier read a paragraph.

The man with the little eyes broke the ominous silence which ensued.

“One of our side must have seen the whole thing, jumped on his bicycle and brought in the account before they went to press.  They make no imputation on the lady—­simply state the facts.  Quite enough,” he added with impersonal grimness; “I think he’s done for himself, sir.”

The man with the refined face added nervously: 

“We couldn’t help it, Mr. Courtier; I really don’t know what we can do.  I don’t like it a bit.”

“Has your candidate seen this?” Courtier asked.

“Can’t have,” struck in the third Committee-man; “we hadn’t seen it ourselves until an hour ago.”

“I should never have permitted it,” said the man with the refined face; “I blame the editor greatly.”

“Come to that——­” said the little-eyed man, “it’s a plain piece of news.  If it makes a stir, that’s not our fault.  The paper imputes nothing, it states.  Position of the lady happens to do the rest.  Can’t help it, and moreover, sir, speaking for self, don’t want to.  We’ll have no loose morals in public life down here, please God!” There was real feeling in his words; then, catching sight of Courtier’s face, he added:  “Do you know this lady?”

“Ever since she was a child.  Anyone who speaks evil of her, has to reckon with me.”

The man with the refined face said earnestly: