up in an awful rage.
Every additional vote we can count in the House is worth its weight
in gold; and you, he says are allowing West Lynne to slip through your
fingers! You must start for it at once Levison."

Sir Francis mused. Had the alternative been given him, he would have
preferred to represent a certain warm place underground, rather than
West Lynne. But, to quit Headthelot, and the snug post he anticipated,
would be ruin irretrievable; nothing short of outlawry, or the queen's
prison. It was awfully necessary to get his threatened person into
parliament, and he began to turn over in his mind whether he _could_
bring himself to make further acquaintance with West Lynne. "The thing
must have blown over for good by this time," was the result of his
cogitations, unconsciously speaking aloud.

"I can understand your reluctance to appear at West Lynne," cried Mr.
Meredith; "the scene, unless I mistake, of that notorious affair of
yours. But private feelings must give way to public interests, and the
best thing you can do is to _start_. Headthelot is angry enough as it
is. He says, had you been down at first, as you ought to have been,
you would have slipped in without opposition, but now there will be a
contest."

Sir Francis looked up sharply. "A contest? Who is going to stand the
funds?"

"Pshaw! As if we should let funds be any barrier! Have you heard who is
in the field?"

"No," was the apathetic answer.

"Carlyle."

"Carlyle!" uttered Sir Francis, startled. "Oh, by George, though! I
can't stand against him."

"Well, there's the alternative. If you can't, Thornton will."

"I should run no chance. West Lynne would not elect me in preference to
him. I'm not sure, indeed, that West Lynne would have me in any case."

"Nonsense! You know our interest there. Government put in Attley, and it
can put you in. Yes, or no, Levison?"

"Yes," answered Sir Francis.

An hour's time, and Sir Francis Levison went forth. On his way to be
conveyed to West Lynne? Not yet. He turned his steps to Scotland
Yard. In considerably less than an hour the following telegram, marked
"Secret," went down from the head office to the superintendent of police
at West Lynne.

"Is Otway Bethel at West Lynne? If not; where is he? And when will he be
returning to it?"

It elicited a prompt answer.

"Otway Bethel is not at West Lynne. Supposed to be in Norway. Movements
uncertain."

CHAPTER XXXV.

A MISHAP TO THE BLUE SPECTA