"But you're not going to hang this man until you get this statement over from Canada?"

    "Don't be absurd, Inspector, don't be absurd! If a Secretary of State were to be influenced by newspaper reports where would he be, eh? Did you read the last paragraph?"

    Bliss took up the paper again and saw, later: 'The man Lavinski died before he could sign the statement he had made before Mr. Prideaux.'

    "Let me tell you, sir"—Mr. Strathpenner wagged an admonitory finger—"His Majesty's Secretary of State is not to be influenced by wild-cat stories of this kind...by newspaper reports, by—ahem—hearsay evidence as it were! What are we to do? I ask you! On the unsigned deposition of a—er—convicted murderer caught in the act. Release this man Benner?"

    "You could grant him a respite, sir," interrupted Bliss.

    Mr. Strathpenner sat back in his chair and his tone became icy.

    "I am not asking your advice, Inspector...If I lose my pocket-book or my watch I have no doubt your advice will be invaluable—ahem—to secure its recovery. Thank you, Inspector."

    He waved Bliss from the room. The detective went across to Scotland Yard, but Walford had gone. The only thing he knew was that the death-warrant had not been signed. It is part of the Home Secretary's duty to affix his name to a document that will send a fellow-creature from this life, and one of the bravest men who ever sat in a Cabinet refused the second offer of the office for this reason.

    Mr. Strathpenner, at any rate, was not in any way distressed by his duty. He had summoned the Judge who had tried the case to meet him the next day, and he went back to his house in Crowborough that night without a single qualm or misgiving.

    He was a widower; lived alone—except for a large staff of servants, which included a French chef, and he dined, a solitary figure in the big mahogany-panelled dining-room, a large German philosophical work propped up before him for he was an excellent linguist and had a weakness for shallow philosophies if they were propounded with sufficient pretentiousness.

    He was so reading at the end of his meal when the visitor was announced. Mr. Strathpenner looked at the card suspiciously. It read: "Mr. James Hagger, 14, High Street, Crouchstead."

    Now, Crouchstead was the West of England constituency which had the honour of being represented in Parliament by the Home Secretary, and, since he held his seat by the narrowest of majorities, he resisted the temptation to send the message which rose too readily to his lips.

    "All right, show him in here."

    He looked at the card again. Who was Mr. Hagger? Probably somebody very important in Crouchstead; somebody he had shaken hands with, probably. An important member of the Crouchstead Freedom Club, likely enough. Sir. Strathpenner loathed Crouchstead and all its social manifestations; yet he screwed a smile into his face when Mr. Hagger was ushered to his presence.

    The visitor proved to be a very respectably dressed man, with a heavy black moustache which drooped beneath chin level.

    "You remember me, sir?" His voice was deep and solemn. "I met you at the Freedom banquet. I'm the secretary of the Young Workers' League."

    Oh, it was the Young Workers' League, was it, thought Mr. Strathpenner. He had almost forgotten its existence.

    "Of course...naturally...sit down, Mr. Hagger. Will you have a glass of port?"

    Mr. Hagger deposited his hat carefully on the floor.

    "No, sir, thank you, I'm a lifelong abstainer. I neither touch, taste, nor handle. Of course, I realise that a gentleman like you has to have likker in the 'ouse.