I thought of appealing to Leonard Dickinson, who surely, if he knew of it, would not permit this thing to be done; and he was the only man with the possible exception of Miller Gorse who might be able to restrain Judd Jason.  But I delayed until after the luncheon hour, when I called up the bank on the telephone, to discover that it was closed.  I had forgotten that the day was Saturday.  I was prepared to say that I would withdraw from the campaign, warn Krebs myself if this kind of tactics were not suppressed.  But I could not get the banker.  Then I began to have doubts of Dickinson’s power in the matter.  Judd Jason had never been tractable, by any means; he had always maintained a considerable independence of the financial powers, and to-day not only financial control, but the dominance of Jason himself was at stake.  He would fight for it to the last ditch, and make use of any means.  No, it was of no use to appeal to him.  What then?  Well, there was a reaction, or an attempt at one.  Krebs had not been born yesterday, he had avoided the wiles of the politicians heretofore, he wouldn’t be fool enough to be taken in now.  I told myself that if I were not in a state bordering on a nervous breakdown, I should laugh at such morbid fears, I steadied myself sufficiently to dictate the extract from my speech that was to be published.  I was to make addresses at two halls, alternating with Parks, the mayoralty candidate.  At four o’clock I went back to my room in the Club to try to get some rest....

Seddon’s Hall, the place of my first meeting, was jammed that Saturday night.  I went through my speech automatically, as in a dream, the habit of long years asserting itself.  And yet—­so I was told afterwards—­my delivery was not mechanical, and I actually achieved more emphasis, gave a greater impression of conviction than at any time since the night I had lost my control and violently denounced the reformers.  By some astonishing subconscious process I had regained my manner, but the applause came to me as from a distance.  Not only was my mind not there; it did not seem to be anywhere.  I was dazed, nor did I feel—­save once—­a fleeting surge of contempt for the mob below me with their silly faces upturned to mine.  There may have been intelligent expressions among them, but they failed to catch my eye.

I remember being stopped by Grierson as I was going out of the side entrance.  He took my hand and squeezed it, and there was on his face an odd, surprised look.

“That was the best yet, Hugh,” he said.

I went on past him.  Looking back on that evening now, it would almost seem as though the volition of another possessed me, not my own:  seemingly, I had every intention of going on to the National Theatre, in which Parks had just spoken, and as I descended the narrow stairway and emerged on the side street I caught sight of my chauffeur awaiting me by the curb.

“I’m not going to that other meeting,” I found myself saying.  “I’m pretty tired.”