Sir Edwin had mapped it all out beforehand, sitting at his desk, with an anxious, unhappy expression, unrelieved by the evidences all around him of what he had achieved—of the proud position that was his. Indeed he almost wished he could will it all away, and be just an independent, moderately successful solicitor, able to please himself in all things; instead of bound by the demands of party and position.
And those demands just now were very exacting. It was not an easy party to serve, and the less so in that its ranks numbered many soldiers of fortune of the swashbuckler type, who meant to hold the power they had attained partly on the exploitation of a lie, by fair means or otherwise; even if necessary by further lies—lies upon lies—but clever, carefully manipulated ones; not bald, childish, outspoken ones.
One of their most prominent office-holders had recently perpetrated a lie of the latter type. Such a barefaced, impudent, obvious lie, that there was no possibility of covering it up, and the whole country talked of it. Music halls laughed at it, comic papers and comic songs rang with it, election platforms bristled with it.
Naturally the party was very annoyed. One could imagine them saying indignantly to the offender: “Lie as much as you like, but for goodness’ sake have the common sense to lie cleverly. If you can’t do that, better confine yourself to merely distorting facts.”
The official in question held a post in the same department as Sir Edwin—which meant that quite enough opprobrium had been recently hurled at the Law without risk of any further scandal.
The party was not sufficiently strong for that. They had fright enough over a paragraph in the Church Gazette, hinting at a lady in connection with one of their Ministers—where there should be no lady; but prompt action had steered the ship through those shoals in safety.
But all the same, this business of The Right Honourable Sir Edwin Crathie and the Stock Exchange had got to be attended to at once. Under no possible consideration must it leak out that a Cabinet Minister had been speculating so heavily, and lost to such an extent, that nothing but an immense sum of money could save him from disgrace, bankruptcy, and ruin.
One friend and another had tided him over for some little time, but he had continued to be reckless and incautious, relying with an unpleasant sneer upon his title.
“Oh well!” had been his conclusion; “if the worst comes to the worst, I can always sell my name to an heiress.”
Finally, that unhappy condition had arrived. It had further chosen the worst possible moment—the moment when the music halls and comic papers were waxing hilarious over the badly executed lie.