The days went on.  Paul addressed his last meeting on the eve of the poll.  By a supreme effort he regained some of his former fire and eloquence.  He drove home exhausted, and going straight to bed slept like a dog till morning.

The servant who woke him brought a newspaper to the bedside.

“Something to interest you, sir.”

Paul looked at the headline indicated by the man.

“Hickney Heath Election.  Liberal Candidate’s Confession.  Extraordinary Scene.”

He glanced hurriedly down the column and read with amazement and stabbing pain the matter that was of interest.  The worst had happened—­the thing which during all his later life Silas Finn had feared.  The spectre of the prison had risen up against him.

Towards the end of Silas Finn’s speech, at his last great meeting, a man, sitting in the body of the hall near the platform, got up and interrupted him.  “What about your own past life?  What about your three years’ penal servitude?” All eyes were turned from the man—­ a common looking, evil man—­to the candidate, who staggered as if he had been shot, caught at the table behind him for support and stared in greyfaced terror.  There was an angry tumult, and the interrupter would have fared badly, but for Silas Finn holding up his hand and imploring silence.

“I challenge the candidate to deny,” said the man, as soon as he could be heard, “that his real name is Silas Kegworthy, and that he underwent three years’ penal servitude for murderously assaulting his wife.”

Then the candidate braced himself and said:  “The bare facts are true.  But I have lived stainlessly in the fear of God and in the service of humanity for thirty years.  I have sought absolution for a moment of mad anger under awful provocation in unremitting prayer and in trying to save the souls and raise the fortunes of my fellow-men.  Is that all you have against me?”

“That’s all,” said the man.

“It is for you, electors of Hickney Heath, to judge me.”

He sat down amid tumultuous cheers, and the man who had interrupted him, after some rough handling, managed to make his escape.  The chairman then put a vote of confidence in the candidate, which was carried by acclamation, and the meeting broke up.

Such were the essential facts in the somewhat highly coloured newspaper story which Paul read in stupefied horror.  He dressed quickly and went to his sitting-room, where he rang tip his father’s house on the telephone.  Jane’s voice met his ear.

“It’s Paul speaking,” he replied.  “I’ve just this moment read of last night.  I’m shaken to my soul.  How is my father?”

“He’s greatly upset,” came the voice.  “He didn’t sleep all night, and he’s not at all well this morning.  Oh, it was a cruel, cowardly blow.”

“Dastardly.  Do you know who it was?”

“No.  Don’t you?”

“I?  Does either of you think that I—?”