nk, he wanted to see you, but I wasn't going to let him.
Not until to-night, when you're going to burst upon every one like King
Solomon in his glory! Come on! WE'RE GOING TO SHOP!"

To most people the 29th, the much-heralded "Labour Day," had passed much
as any other day. Speeches were made in the Park and Trafalgar Square.
Straggling processions, singing the Red Flag, wandered through the
streets in a more or less aimless manner. Newspapers which had hinted at
a general strike, and the inauguration of a reign of terror, were forced
to hide their diminished heads. The bolder and more astute among
them sought to prove that peace had been effected by following their
counsels. In the Sunday papers a brief notice of the sudden death of Sir
James Peel Edgerton, the famous K.C., had appeared. Monday's paper
dealt appreciatively with the dead man's career. The exact manner of his
sudden death was never made public.

Tommy had been right in his forecast of the situation. It had been a
one-man show. Deprived of their chief, the organization fell to pieces.
Kramenin had made a precipitate return to Russia, leaving England early
on Sunday morning. The gang had fled from Astley Priors in a panic,
leaving behind, in their haste, various damaging documents which
compromised them hopelessly. With these proofs of conspiracy in their
hands, aided further by a small brown diary taken from the pocket of
the dead man which had contained a full and damning resume of the whole
plot, the Government had called an eleventh-hour conference. The Labour
leaders were forced to recognize that they had been used as a cat's
paw. Certain concessions were made by the Government, and were eagerly
accepted. It was to be Peace, not War!

But the Cabinet knew by how narrow a margin they had escaped utter
disaster. And burnt in on Mr. Carter's brain was the strange scene which
had taken place in the house in Soho the night before.

He had entered the squalid room to find that great man, the friend of
a lifetime, dead--betrayed out of his own mouth. From the dead man's
pocket-book he had retrieved the ill-omened draft treaty, and then
and there, in the presence of the other three, it had been reduced to
ashes.... England was saved!

And now, on the evening of the 30th, in a private room at the Savoy, Mr.
Julius P. Hersheimmer was receiving his guests.

Mr. Carter was the first to arrive. With him was a choleric-looking old
gentleman, at sight of whom T