infidel--the little mission preacher had certainly been busy, and
everywhere it seemed to be understood that his enterprise was an
anti-Christian one. And finally there was a long packet, marked as
having been delivered by hand, and inside--without a word of any sort,
on a single clue as to its sender--a bank-note for one thousand pounds.

Brooks passed it over to his companion, who saw the amount with a little
start.

"A thousand pounds--not even registered--in a plain envelope. And you
have no idea from whom it came?

"None whatever," Brooks answered.

The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back. He looked at
the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks--his dark thoughtful face
suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement. In his own mind he was
making a thumb-nail sketch of these things. There was material for
one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved. He
wished Brooks good-night.

"I'm much obliged for all you've told me," he said. "If you don't mind,
I'd like to drop in now and again down at Stepney. I believe that this
is going to be rather a big thing for you."

Brooks smiled.

"So do I," he answered. "Come whenever you like."

Brooks sank into an easy-chair, conscious at last of a more than
ordinary exhaustion. He looked at the pile of newspapers at his feet,
the sea of correspondence on the table--his thoughts travelled back to
the bare, dusty room in Stepney, with its patient, white-faced crowd of
men and women and children. Perhaps, after all, then he had found his
life's work here. If so he need surely regret no longer his lost
political opportunities. Yet in his heart he knew that it had been from
the House of Commons he had meant to force home his schemes. To work
outside had always seemed to him to be labouring under a disadvantage,
to be missing the true and best opportunity of impressing upon the
law-makers of the country their true responsibilities. But of that
there was no longer any hope. Of the House of Lords he thought only
with a cold shiver. No, political life was denied to him. He must do
his best for the furtherance of his work outside.

He fell asleep to awake in the cold grey of the morning, stiff and
cramped, and cold to the bone. Stamping up and down the room in a
vigorous attempt to restore his lost circulation, he noticed as he
passed the corner of the table a still unopened letter addressed to him
in a familiar handwriting. He took it ove