ent would be an
unqualifiable disaster. But--you'll pardon my mentioning it--you began
this discussion by asking me whether the Almighty had common sense."

"Well, has He or not?"

"Of course," said Wilson.

"Then we're going to win this election," said Paul.

If he could have met enthusiasm with enthusiasm, all would have been
well. The awakener of England could have captivated hearts by glowing
pictures of a great and glorious future. It would have been a
counter-blaze to that lit by his opponent, which flamed in all the
effulgence of a reckless reformer's promise, revealing a Utopia in
which there would be no drunkenness, no crime, no poverty, and in which
the rich, apparently, would have to work very hard in order to support
the poor in comfortable idleness. But beyond proving fallacies, Paul
could do nothing--and even then, has there ever been a mob since the
world began susceptible to logical argument? So, all through the wintry
days of the campaign, Silas Finn carried his fiery cross through the
constituency, winning frenzied adherents, while Paul found it hard to
rally the faithful round the drooping standard of St. George.

The days went on. Paul addressed his last meeting on the eve of the
poll. By a supreme effort he regained some of his former fire and
eloquence. He drove home exhausted, and going straight to bed slept
like a dog till morning.

The servant who woke him brought a newspaper to the bedside.

"Something to interest you, sir."

Paul looked at the headline indicated by the man.

"Hickney Heath Election. Liberal Candidate's Confession. Extraordinary
Scene."

He glanced hurriedly down the column and read with amazement and
stabbing pain the matter that was of interest. The worst had
happened--the thing which during all his later life Silas Finn had
feared. The spectre of the prison had risen up against him.

Towards the end of Silas Finn's speech, at his last great meeting, a
man, sitting in the body of the hall near the platform, got up and
interrupted him. "What about your own past life? What about your three
years' penal servitude?" All eyes were turned from the man--a common
looking, evil man--to the candidate, who staggered as if he had been
shot, caught at the table behind him for support and stared in
greyfaced terror. There was an angry tumult, and the interrupter would
have fared badly, but for Silas Finn holding up his hand and imploring
silence.

"I challenge the candidate