The strain was broken by Saxenham getting to his feet. I knew his record, and I could guess what his feelings must have been. He stood there, a pathetic little figure, with shaking hands and dim eyes, a worshipper who had found his god only a broken image. He turned and looked at us in a pitiful way and then faced round to the wrecker.
“Nordenholt,” he said, “he doesn’t deny it. Is it really true? Can you give me your word?”
Nordenholt’s face became very gentle and all the hardness died out of his voice.
“Yes, Saxenham, it is true. I give you my word of honour for its truth. He can’t deny it.”
“Then I’ve backed a lie. I believed him. And now I’ve misled people. I’ve gone on to platforms and denied the truth of it; pledged my word that it was a malicious falsehood. Oh! I can’t face it, Nordenholt. I can’t face it. This finishes me with public service. I—I——”
He covered his face with his hands and I could see the tears trickle between his fingers. He had paid his price for being honest.
But the Premier was of sterner stuff. He looked up at Nordenholt at last with a gleam of hatred which he suppressed almost as it came:
“Well, Nordenholt, what’s your price?”
“So you’ve seen reason, Biles? Not like poor Saxenham, eh?” There was an under-current of bitterness in the tone, but it was almost imperceptible. “Well, it’s not hard. You take your orders from me now. You cover me with your full responsibility. You understand? You always were good at assuming responsibility. Have it now.”
“Do I understand you to mean that you would like to be a Dictator?”