e. He came across to Foster,
holding the suspected placard in his hand.

"Smoothed him down this time, sir?" asked Foster cheerily.

"Yes," answered Quisante, passing his hand over his smooth hair. "I
think, Mr. Foster, we won't have any more of this Number 77. Make a note
of that, will you?"

"No more of 77," Foster noted on a piece of paper.

"It's not one of the most effective," said Quisante thoughtfully.

"Sails a little near the wind, don't it?" asked Foster with a wink.

"Brief summaries of intricate subjects are almost inevitably open to
misunderstanding," observed Quisante.

"Just so, just so," Foster hurried to say, his eyes grown quite grave
again. May remembered Mr. Constantine Blair's plagiarism of her husband's
style; had he been there, he must have appropriated this last example
also. "I shall end by becoming very fond of Japhet Williams," she said as
she got into the carriage. Quisante glanced at her and did not ask her
why.

Meanwhile, however, the other side had got hold of No. 77, and Smiley,
the agent, a very clever fellow, wired up to the Temple for young Terence
McPhair, who had an acquaintance with the subject. Young Terence, who
possessed a ready tongue and no briefs to use it on, made fine play with
No. 77; accusations of misrepresentation, ignorant he hoped, fraudulent
he feared, flew about thick as snowflakes. The next morning Japhet was
round at the Committee Room by ten o'clock. Foster was there, and a boy
came up to the Bull with a message asking if Mr. Quisante could make it
convenient to step round. It was a bad morning with Quisante; his head
ached, his heart throbbed, and his stomach was sadly out of gear; he had
taken up a report of young Terence's speech, and read it in gloomy
silence while the others breakfasted. There was to be a great meeting
that night, and they had hoped that he would reserve what strength he had
for it. He heard the message, rose without a word, and went down to the
Committee Room.

"What'll he do?" asked Jimmy Benyon. "They gave us some nasty knocks last
night."

"He can prove that the placard has been withdrawn, at least that no more
are to be ordered," said Fanny Gaston. "It wasn't his fault; he's not
bound to defend it."

Quisante came home to a late lunch; he was still ill, but his depression
had vanished; he ate, drank, and talked, his spirit rising above the woes
of his body.

"What have you done this morning?" Fanny asked.

"Held a meeti