“I can assure you of that, sir,” said Elk. “I got the photograph up from Gloucester this afternoon.”
He produced from his pocket-book two photographs, one in profile and one full-face, and put them on the table before the Minister.
“Show the picture again,” he ordered, and again they watched the presentation of the tragedy. “But how on earth did the man manage to take this picture?”
“I’ve since discovered, sir, that he was in the neighbourhood on that very day. He went out to get a photograph of a badger—I know this, sir, because Mr. Silenski has given me all the information in his power.”
Mr. Whitby looked up at Dick.
“You’re in the Public Prosecutor’s Department? I remember you very well, Captain Gordon. I must take your word. This is not a matter for respite, but for reprieve, until the whole of the circumstances are investigated.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, wiping his streaming forehead.
“You’d better take me along to the Home Office,” grumbled the great man. “To-morrow I shall be cursing your name and memory, though I must confess that I’m feeling better for the drive. I want that picture.”
They had to wait until the picture was replaced in its box, and then Dick Gordon and Elk assisted the Secretary of State to the waiting ambulance.
At a quarter-past eight, a reprieve, ready for the Royal counter-signature, was in Dick’s hand, and the miracle, which Mr. Whitby had not dared expect, had happened. He was able, with the aid of a stick, to hobble to a car. Before the great Palace, streams of carriages and motor-cars were passing. It was the night of the first ball of the season, and the hall of the Palace was a brilliant sight. The glitter of women’s jewels, the scarlet, blue and green of diplomatic uniforms, the flash of innumerable Orders, no less than the organization of this gorgeous gathering, interested Dick as he stood, a strangely contrasting figure, watching the pageant pass him.