"No."
"Then you haven't seen Johnstone's window?"
"Johnstone's window? What does Johnstone want with a window?"
"Put on your hat and come and see. Yes, come along. It concerns you."
They walked down together in the gathering dusk of the afternoon, and when they came near Johnstone's, they saw his window lighted with a blaze of gas, and a little knot of curious people standing outside. The window was full of Dale's books, and the rows of green volumes were surmounted by a large placard—"Dale Bannister, the poet of Denborough—Works on Sale Here. Ask for 'The Clarion,' 'The Arch Apostates,' 'Blood for Blood'"; and outside, a file of men carried boards, headed, "The Rights of the People. Read Dale Bannister! No more Kings! No more Priests! Read Dale Bannister!"
A curse broke from Dale. Philip smiled grimly.
"Who's done this?" Dale asked.
Philip pointed to a solitary figure which stood on the opposite side of the road, looking on at the spectacle. It was James Roberts, and he smiled grimly in his turn when he saw the poet and his friend.
"He put Johnstone up to it," said Philip. "Johnstone told me so."
Dale was aflame. He strode quickly across the road to where the Doctor stood, and said to him hotly: