Graham ransacked his mind. “The Council has few friends among the people,” he hazarded.
“Few friends. And poor ones at that. They’ve had their time. Eh! They should have kept to the clever ones. But twice they held election. And Ostrog—. And now it has burst out and nothing can stay it, nothing can stay it. Twice they rejected Ostrog—Ostrog the Boss. I heard of his rages at the time—he was terrible. Heaven save them! For nothing on earth can now he has raised the Labour Companies upon them. No one else would have dared. All the blue canvas armed and marching! He will go through with it. He will go through.”
He was silent for a little while. “This Sleeper,” he said, and stopped.
“Yes,” said Graham. “Well?”
The senile voice sank to a confidential whisper, the dim, pale face came close. “The real Sleeper—”
“Yes,” said Graham.
“Died years ago.”
“What?” said Graham, sharply.
“Years ago. Died. Years ago.”
“You don’t say so!” said Graham.