I Oliver Brand, seated in his little private room at Whitehall, was expecting a visitor.

It was already close upon ten o'clock, and at half-past he must be in the House.

He had hoped that Mr.Francis, whoever he might be, would not detain him long.

Even now, every moment was a respite, for the work had become simply prodigious during the last weeks.
But he was not reprieved for more than a minute, for the last boom from the Victoria Tower had scarcely ceased to throb when the door opened and a clerkly voice uttered the name he was expecting.
Oliver shot one quick look at the stranger, at his drooping lids and down-turned mouth, summed him up fairly and accurately in the moments during which they seated themselves, and went briskly to business.
"At twenty-five minutes past, sir, I must leave this room," he said.
"Until then---" he made a little gesture.
Mr.Francis reassured him.
"Thank you, Mr.Brand--that is ample time.

Then, if you will excuse me---" He groped in his breast-pocket, and drew out a long envelope.
"I will leave this with you," he said, "when I go.