ng the work of Europe, of civilisation, of Christianity there.
He is sacrificing himself for the world. Do you not see it? Oh, but you
do! You would realise his work if you knew Egypt as I have seen it."

"Expediency must govern the policy of nations," he answered critically.

"But, if through your expediency he is killed like a rat in a trap, and
his work goes to pieces--all undone! Is there no right in the matter?"

"In affairs of state other circumstances than absolute 'right' enter.
Here and there the individual is sacrificed who otherwise would be
saved--if it were expedient."

"Oh, Eglington! He is of your own county, of your own village, is your
neighbour, a man of whom all England should be proud. You can intervene
if you will be just, and say you will. I know that intervention has been
discussed in the Cabinet."

"You say he is of my county. So are many people, and yet they are not
county people. A neighbour he was, but more in a Scriptural than social
sense." He was hurting her purposely.

She made a protesting motion of her hand. "No, no, no, do not be so
small. This is a great matter. Do a great thing now; help it to be done
for your own honour, for England's honour--for a good man's sake, for
your country's sake."

There came a knock at the door. An instant afterwards a secretary
entered. "A message from the Prime Minister, sir." He handed over a
paper.

"Will you excuse me?" he asked Hylda suavely, in his eyes the
enigmatical look that had chilled her so often before. She felt that
her appeal had been useless. She prepared to leave the room. He took her
hand, kissed it gallantly, and showed her out. It was his way--too civil
to be real.

Blindly she made her way to her room. Inside, she suddenly swayed and
sank fainting to the ground, as Kate Heaver ran forward to her. Kate
saw the letter in the clinched hand. Loosening it, she read two or three
sentences with a gasp. They contained Tom Lacey's appeal for David. She
lifted Hylda's head to her shoulder with endearing words, and chafed the
cold hands, murmuring to herself the while.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUESTIONER

"What has thee come to say?"

Sitting in his high-backed chair, Luke Claridge seemed a part of its
dignified severity. In the sparsely furnished room with its uncarpeted
floor, its plain teak table, its high wainscoting and undecorated walls,
the old man had the look of one who belonged to some ancient consistory,
a judge whose