“Oh,” answered Jacob King, shaking his head very slightly and slowly, “the original judgment was sustained.”
“What d’ye mean?” snapped John K. Petre, stopping short.
“Why, we’ve lost,” said Jacob King simply.
Then it was that John Kosciusko gave tongue to the eternal heavens, and the central hall rang with such imprecations as startled the crowd of boobies waiting for their M.P.’s and moved three stalwarts of Division A to approach with leisured but determined majesty. The protestor was hustled out, under the stony reproaches of dead Statesmen, of the Thistle, the Rose, and even the Shamrock. Down past Pitt and the rest of them, off through the end of Westminster Hall, and into his motor and through the winter dark throughout, still shouting vengeance.
But it was all over, and there was nothing left to do but the paying.
The Times had a leader next day upon the interest, the significance, and the indubitable soundness of the decision. John K. Petre was already in Paris, and on his way to the warmer ports of the South, and so by an Italian boat to his home. All thought of our Island was doubly abhorrent to him now and for ever.
As for Mr. Blagden, he had paid and paid and paid, without the least regret, delay or protest; and now that all was over, he sat with Buffy Thompson in the dear library at Harrington settling his plans.
“I’ve made up my mind, Buffy,” he said. “I thought I could have stayed here till the end of my life. But it needs a poorer man to do that.”
“What’re you going to do?” said his friend.