“Do you want me to resign my seat?”

The two men looked deep into each other’s eyes.

“A Unionist in is a Liberal out,” said Frank Ayres, “and counts two on division.  That’s one way of looking at it.  We want all we can get from the enemy.  On the other hand, you’d come in for a lot of criticism and hostility.  You’d have to start not only from the beginning, but with a handicap.  Are you strong enough to face it?”

“I’m not going to run away from anything,” said Paul.  “But I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do.  I’ll resign and fight the constituency again, under my real name of Kegworthy, provided, of course, the local people are willing to adopt me—­on the understanding, however, that the party support me, or, at least, don’t put forward another candidate.  I’m not going to turn berserk.”

“That’s a sporting offer, at any rate.  But, pardon me—­we’re talking business—­where is the money for another election to come from?”

“My poor father’s death makes me a wealthy man,” replied Paul.

Miss Winwood started forward in her chair.  “My dear, you never told us.”

“There were so many other things to talk about this morning,” he said gently; “but of course I would have told you later.  I only mention it now”—­he turned to the Chief Whip—­“in answer to your direct and very pertinent question.”

Now between a political free-lance adopting a parliamentary career in order to fight for his own hand, as all Paul’s supporters were frankly aware that he was doing, and a wealthy, independent and brilliant young politician lies a wide gulf.  The last man on earth, in his private capacity, to find his estimate of his friends influenced by their personal possessions was the fine aristocrat Lord Francis Ayres.  But he was a man of the world, the very responsible head of the executive of a great political party.  As that executive head he was compelled to regard Paul from a different angle.  The millions of South Africa or the Middle West might vainly knock at his own front door till the crack of doom, while Paul the penniless sauntered in an honoured guest.  But in his official room in the House of Commons more stern and worldly considerations had to prevail.

“Of course I can’t give you an answer now,” said he.  “I’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the powers that be.  But a seat’s a seat, and though I appreciate your Quixotic offer, I don’t see why we should risk it.  It’s up to you to make good.  It’s more in your own interest that I’m speaking now.  Can you go through with it?”

Paul, with his unconquerable instinct for the dramatic, hauled out the little cornelian heart at the end of his watch-chain.  “My dear fellow,” said he.  “Do you see that?  It was given to me for failing to win a race at a Sunday-school treat, when I was a very little boy.  I didn’t possess coat or stockings, and my toes came out through the ends of my boots, and in order to keep the thing