t, for once in his life, he was
not thinking most about political affairs.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LAW _VERSUS_ RULE 3.

Among the many tired but satisfied lovers of liberty who sought their
houses that night, while an enthusiastic remnant was still parading the
streets, illuminations yet shining from windows, and weary police
treading their unending beats, was the doorkeeper, who had borne a
banner in Company A of Procession 1. His friend the watchmaker came with
him, to have a bit of supper and exchange congratulations and
fulminations. Hardly, however, had the doorkeeper pledged the cause in a
first draught when his wife broke in on his oration by handing him a
letter, which she said a boy in a blue jersey had left for him about ten
o'clock in the morning, just after he had started to join his company.
The envelope was cheap and coarse; there was no direction outside. The
doorkeeper opened it. It was addressed to no named person and it bore no
signature. It was very brief, being confined to these simple words--"You
did not see me last night. Remember Rule 3."

The doorkeeper laid the letter down, with a hurried glance at his
friend, whose face was buried in a mug. He knew the handwriting; he knew
who it was that he had not seen; he remembered Rule 3, the rule that
said--"The only and inevitable penalty of treachery is death." He turned
white and took a hasty gulp at his liquor.

"Who brought this?" he asked.

"I told you," answered his wife; "a lad in a blue jersey; he looked as
if he might be from the harbour." She put food before them, adding as
she did so--"I suppose you've been too full of your politics to hear
much about the murder?"

"The murder?" exclaimed the watchmaker. The doorkeeper crumpled up his
letter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat, while his wife read
to them the story of the discovery. The watchmaker listened with
interest.

"Benham!" he remarked. "I never heard the name, did you?"

"You know him, Ned," said the doorkeeper's wife; "him as Mr. Gaspard
used to go about with."

By a sudden common impulse, the eyes of the two men met; the woman went
off to brew them a pot of tea, and left them fearfully gazing at one
another.

"What stuff!" said the watchmaker uneasily. "It was only his blow. What
reason had he--?" He paused and added, "Seen him to-day, Ned?"

"No," answered Ned, fingering his note.

"Wasn't he in the procession?"

"I didn't see him."

"When did you see