"How can we do otherwise?" Fenn demanded. "Freistner, who is responsible for it, has been in unofficial correspondence with us since the commencement of the war. We know his handwriting, we know his character, we've had a hundred different occasions to test his earnestness and trustworthiness. This doc.u.ment is in his own writing and accompanied by remarks and references to previous correspondence which render its authenticity indisputable."

"Granted that the proposals themselves are genuine, there still remain the three signatures," Julian observed.

"Why should we doubt them?" Fenn protested. "Freistner guarantees them, and Freistner is our friend, the friend and champion of Labour throughout the world. To attempt to deceive us would be to cover himself with eternal obloquy."

"Yet these terms," Julian pointed out, "differ fundamentally from anything which Germany has yet allowed to be made public."

"There are two factors here which may be considered," Miles Furley intervened. "The first is that the economic condition of Germany is far worse than she has allowed us to know. The second, which is even more interesting to us, is the rapid growth in influence, power, and numbers of the Socialist and Labour Party in that country."

"Of both these factors," the Bishop reminded them, "we have had very frequent hints from our friends, the neutrals. Let me tell you all what I think. I think that those terms are as much as we have the right to expect, even if our armies had reached the Rhine. It is possible that we might obtain some slight modifications, if we continued the war, but would those modifications be worth the loss of a few more hundred thousands of human lives, of a few more months of this hideous, pagan slaughter and defilement of G.o.d's beautiful world?"

There was a murmur of approval. A lank, rawboned Yorkshireman--David Sands--a Wesleyan enthusiast, a local preacher, leaned across the table, his voice shaking with earnestness:

"It's true!" he exclaimed. "It's the word of G.o.d! It's for us to stop the war. If we stop it to-night instead of to-morrow, a thousand lives may be saved, human lives, lives of our fellow creatures. Our fellow labourers in Germany have given us the chance. Don't let us delay five minutes. Let the one of us you may select see the Prime Minister to-night and deliver the people's message."

"There's no cause for delay that I can see," Cross approved.

"There is none," Fenn a.s.sented heartily. "I propose that we proceed to the election of our representative; that, having elected him, we send him to the Prime Minister with our message, and that we remain here in the building until we have his report."

"You are unanimously resolved, then," the Bishop asked, "to take this last step?"

There was a little chorus of a.s.sent. Fenn leaned forward in his place.

"Everything is ready," he announced. "Our machinery is perfect. Our agents in every city await the mandate."

"But do you imagine that those last means will be necessary?" the Bishop enquired anxiously.

"Most surely I do," Fenn replied. "Remember that if the people make peace for the country, it is the people who will expect to govern the country. It will be a notice to the politicians to quit. They know that.

It is my belief that they, will resist, tooth and nail."

Bright glanced at his watch.

"The Prime Minister," he announced, "will be at Downing Street until nine o'clock. It is now seven o'clock. I propose that we proceed without any further delay to the election of our representative."

"The voting cards," Fenn pointed out, "are before each person. Every one has two votes, which must be for two different representatives. The cards should then be folded, and I propose that the Bishop, who is not a candidate, collect them. As I read the unwritten rules of this Congress, every one here is eligible except the Bishop, Miss Abbeway, Mr. Orden and Mr. Furley."

There was a little murmur. Phineas Cross leaned forward in his place.

"Here, what's that?" he exclaimed. "The Bishop, and Miss Abbeway, we all know, are outside the running. Mr. Furley, too, represents the educated Socialists, and though he is with us in this, he is not really Labour.

But Mr. Orden--Paul Fiske, eh? That's a different matter, isn't it?"

"Mr. Orden," Fenn p.r.o.nounced slowly, "is a literary man. He is a sympathiser with our cause, but he is not of it."

"If any man has read the message which Paul Fiske has written with a pen of gold for us," Phineas Cross declared, "and can still say that he is not one of us, why, he must be beside himself. I say that Mr. Orden is the brains and the soul of our movement. He brought life and encouragement into the north of England with the first article he ever wrote. Since then there has not been a man whom the Labour Party that I know anything of has looked up to and worshipped as they have done him."

"It's true," David Sands broke in, "every word of it. There's no one has written for Labour like him. If he isn't Labour, then we none of us are. I don't care whether he is the son of an earl, or a plasterer's apprentice, as I was. He's the right stuff, he has the gift of putting the words together, and his heart's where it should be."

"There is no one," Penn said; his voice trembling a little, "who has a greater admiration for Paul Fiske's writings than I have, but I still contend that he is not Labour."

"Sit down, lad," Cross enjoined. "We'll have a vote on that. I'm for saying that Mr. Julian Orden here, who has written them articles under the name of 'Paul Fiske', is a full member of our Council and eligible to act as our messenger to the Prime Minister. I ask the Bishop to put it to the meeting."

Eighteen were unanimous in agreeing with the motion. Fenn sat down, speechless. His cheeks were pallid. His hands, which rested upon the table, were twitching. He seemed like a man lost in thought and only remembered to fill up his card when the Bishop asked him for it. There was a brief silence whilst the latter, a.s.sisted by Cross and Sands, counted the votes. Then the Bishop rose to his feet.

"Mr. Julian Orden," he announced, "better known to you all under the name of 'Paul Fiske', has been chosen by a large majority as your representative to take the people's message to the Prime Minister."

"I protest!" Fenn exclaimed pa.s.sionately. "This is Mr. Orden's first visit amongst us. He is a stranger. I repeat that he is not one of us.

Where is his power? He has none. Can he do what any one of us can--stop the pulse of the nation? Can he still its furnace fires? Can he empty the shipyards and factories, hold the trains upon their lines, bring the miners up from under the earth? Can he--"

"He can do all these things," Phineas Cross interrupted, "because he speaks for us, our duly elected representative. Sit thee down, Fenn. If you wanted the job, well, you haven't got it, and that's all there is about it, and though you're as glib with your tongue as any here, and though you've as many at your back, perchance, as I have, I tell you I'd never have voted for you if there hadn't been another man here. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, lad."

"All further discussion," the Bishop ruled, "is out of order. Julian Orden, do you accept this mission?"

Julian rose to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his stick. His expression was strangely disturbed.

"Bishop," he said, "and you, my friends, this has all come very suddenly. I do not agree with Mr. Fenn. I consider that I am one with you. I think that for the last ten years I have seen the place which Labour should hold in the political conduct of the world. I have seen the danger of letting the voice of the people remain unheard too long.

Russia to-day is a practical and terrible example of that danger.

England is, in her way, a free country, and our Government a good one, but in the world's history there arrive sometimes crises with which no stereotyped form of government can cope, when the one thing that is desired is the plain, honest mandate of those who count for most in the world, those who, in their simplicity and in their absence from all political ties and precedents and liaisons, see the truth. That is why I have appealed with my pen to Labour, to end this war. That is why I shall go willingly as your representative to the Prime Minister to-night."

The Bishop held out his hand. There was a little reverent hush, for his words were in the nature of a benediction.

"And may G.o.d be with you, our messenger," he said solemnly.

CHAPTER XVI

Julian, duly embarked upon his mission, was kept waiting an unexpectedly short time in the large but gloomy apartment into which Mr. Stenson's butler had somewhat doubtfully ushered him. The Prime Minister entered with an air of slight hurry. He was also somewhat surprised.

"My dear Orden," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "what can I do for you?"

"A great deal," Julian replied gravely. "First of all, though, I have an explanation to make."

"I am afraid," Mr. Stenson regretted, "that I am too much engaged this evening to enter into any personal matters. I am expecting a messenger here on very important official business."

"I am that messenger," Julian announced.

Mr. Stenson started. His visitor's tone was serious and convincing.

"I fear that we are at loggerheads. It is an envoy from the Labour Party whom I am expecting."

"I am that envoy."

"You?" Mr. Stenson exclaimed, in blank bewilderment.

"I ought to explain a little further, perhaps. I have been writing on Labour questions for some time under the pseudonym of 'Paul Fiske'."