scovered among the papers at Mr. Benham's (or we should say
Benyon's) lodgings. Further developments of this strange affair will be
awaited with interest."

"I wish," commented the Superintendent grimly, "that my men could keep a
secret as well as their man can sniff one out."

But Mr. Kilshaw was too excited to listen.

"By Jove," he cried, "the news'll be at the House by now! Come along,
man, come along!"

And, as they went, they read the rest; for the paper had it all--even a
copy of that marriage certificate.

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN ORATOR'S RIVAL.

The House was crowded, and every gallery full. Lady Eynesford and
Eleanor Scaife, attended by Captain Heseltine, occupied their appointed
seats; the members of the Legislative Council overflowed from their
proper pen and mingled with humbler folk in the public galleries;
reporters wrote furiously, and an endless line of boys bearing their
slips came and went. The great hour had arrived: the battle-field was
reached at last. Sir Robert Perry sat and smiled; Puttock played with
the hair chain that wandered across his broad waistcoat; Coxon
restlessly bit his nails; Norburn's face was pale with excitement, and
he twisted his hands in his lap; the determined partisans cheered or
groaned; the waverers looked important and felt unhappy; all eyes were
steadily fixed on the Premier, and all ears intent on his words.

For the moment he had forgotten everything but the fight he was
fighting. No thought of the wretched Benham, who lay dead, no thought of
his daughter, who watched him as he spoke, no thought of Alicia
Derosne, who stayed away that she might not see him, crossed his brain
now, or turned his ideas from the task before him. It was no ordinary
speech, and no ordinary occasion. He spoke only to five men out of all
his audience--the rest were his, or were beyond the power of his charm;
on those five important-looking, unhappy-feeling men he bent every
effort of his will, and played every device of his mind and his tongue.
Now and then he distantly threatened them, oftener he made as though to
convince their cool judgment; again he would invoke the sentiment of old
alliance in them, or stir their pity for the men whose cause he pleaded.
Once he flashed out in bitter mockery at Coxon, then jested in mild
irony at Puttock and his "rich man's revolution." Returning to his text,
he minutely dissected his own measure, insisting on its promise,
extenuating its fanc