m a correspondent"--on which the "leader"
was based.

Marsham saw at once that the "correspondent" was really Barrington
himself, and that the article was wholly derived from the conversation
which had taken place at Tallyn, and from the portions of Ferrier's
letters, which Marsham had read or summarized for the journalist's
benefit.

The passage in particular which Ferrier's dying hand had marked--he
recalled the gleam in Barrington's black eyes as he had listened to it,
the instinctive movement in his powerful hand, as though to pounce,
vulturelike, on the letter--and his own qualm of anxiety--his sudden
sense of having gone too far--his insistence on discretion.

Discretion indeed! The whole thing was monstrous treachery. He had
warned the man that these few sentences were not to be taken
literally--that they were, in fact, Ferrier's caricature of himself and
his true opinion. "You press on me a particular measure," they said, in
effect, "you expect the millennium from it. Well, I'll tell you what
you'll really get by it!"--and then a forecast of the future, after the
great Bill was passed, in Ferrier's most biting vein.

The passage in the _Herald_ was given as a paraphrase, or, rather, as a
kind of _reductio ad absurdum_ of one of Ferrier's last speeches in the
House. It was, in truth, a literal quotation from one of the letters.
Barrington had an excellent memory. He had omitted nothing. The stolen
sentences made the point, the damning point, of the article. They were
not exactly quoted as Ferrier's, but they claimed to express Ferrier
more closely than he had yet expressed himself. "We have excellent
reason to believe that this is, in truth, the attitude of Mr. Ferrier."
How, then, could a man of so cold and sceptical a temper continue to
lead the young reformers of the party? The _Herald_, with infinite
regret, made its bow to its old leader, and went over bag and baggage to
the camp of Lord Philip, who, Marsham could not doubt, had been in close
consultation with the editor through the whole business.

Again and again, as the train sped on, did Marsham go back over the
fatal interview which had led to these results. His mind, full of an
agony of remorse he could not still, was full also of storm and fury
against Barrington. Never had a journalist made a more shameful use of a
trust reposed in him.

With torturing clearness, imagination built up the scene in the garden:
the arrival of Broadstone's letter;