“No, no,” came the voice, now curiously tearful.  “I didn’t mean that.  I forgot you’ve not had time to find out.”

“Who does he think it was?”

“Some old fellow prisoner who had a grudge against him.”

“Were you at the meeting?”

“Yes.  Oh, Paul, it was splendid to see him face the audience.  He spoke so simply and with such sorrowful dignity.  He had their sympathy at once.  But it has broken him.  I’m afraid he’ll never be the same man again.  After all these years it’s dreadful.”

“It’s all that’s damnable.  It’s tragic.  Give him my love and tell him that words can’t express my sorrow and indignation.”

He rang off.  Almost immediately Wilson was announced.  He carne into the room radiant.

“You were right about the divine common-sensicality,” said he.  “The Lord has delivered our adversary into our hands with a vengeance.”

He was a chubby little man of forty, with coarse black hair and scrubby moustache, not of the type that readily appreciates the delicacies of a situation.  Paul conceived a sudden loathing for him.

“I would give anything for it not to have happened,” he said.

Wilson opened his eyes.  “Why?  It’s our salvation.  An ex-convict—­ it’s enough to damn any candidate.  But we want to make sure.  Now I’ve got an idea.”

Paul turned on him angrily.  “I’ll have no capital made out of it whatsoever.  It’s a foul thing to bring such an accusation up against a man who has lived a spotless life for thirty years.  Everything in me goes out in sympathy with him, and I’ll let it be known all through the constituency.”

“If you take it that way,” said Wilson, “there’s no more to be done.”

“There’s nothing to be done, except to find out who put up the man to make the announcement.”

“He did it on his own,” Wilson replied warmly.  “None of our people would resort to a dirty trick like that.”

“And yet you want me to take advantage of it now it’s done.”

“That’s quite a different matter.”

“I can’t see much difference,” said Paul.

So Wilson, seeing that his candidate was more unmanageable than ever, presently departed, and Paul sat down to breakfast.  But he could not eat.  He was both stricken with shame and moved to the depths by immense pity.  Far removed from him as Silas Finn was in mode of life and ideals, he found much in common with his father.  Each had made his way from the slum, each had been guided by an inner light—­was Silas Finn’s fantastic belief less of an ignis fatuus than his own?—­each had sought to get away from a past, each was a child of Ishmael, each, in his own way, had lived romantically.  Whatever resentment against his father lingered in his heart now melted away.  He was very near him.  The shame of the prison struck him as it had struck the old man.  He saw him bowed down under the blow, and he clenched his hands in a torture of anger