Some one here weakly defended the Premier.
"After all," he said, "there's nothing wrong in a public meeting, and perhaps that's all——"
Puttock overbore him with a solemnly emphasised reiteration—
"A discredited gambler's last throw."
"It's Jimmy Medland's last throw, anyhow," added Kilshaw. "I'll see to that."
"Look! There he is!" called a man in the bow-window, and the company crowded round to look.
Medland was walking down the street side by side with a short, thick-set man, whose close-cut, stiff, black hair, bright black eyes, and bristly chin-tip gave him a foreign look. The man seemed to be giving explanations or detailing arrangements, and Medland from time to time nodded assent.
"Who's that with him?" asked Puttock.
The desired information came from a young fellow in the Government service.