"Good. Be at the entrance to the Blackfriars Underground Station to-night at eleven o'clock."
"At eleven; all right."
Mr. John Brown looked at his watch, and then gave a hasty glance round the room. He saw two portly looking men coming in their direction.
"I am sure you will excuse me, Mr. Faversham. It is later than I thought, and I find I have appointments. But it has been very interesting to know your point of view. Good evening. Ah, Sir Felix, I thought you might drop in to-night," and leaving Dick as though their talk had been of the most commonplace nature, he shook hands with the newcomers.
Dick, feeling himself dismissed, left the club, and a minute later found himself in the thronging crowd of Piccadilly. Taxicabs, buses, richly upholstered motor-cars were passing, but he did not heed them. People jostled him as he made his way towards Hyde Park gates, but he was unaware of it. His head was in a whirl; he was living in a maze of conflicting thoughts.
Of course old John Brown was a madman! Nothing but a madman would advance such a quixotic programme! He pictured the club he had just left—quiet, orderly, circumspect—the natural rendezvous for City and West End magnates, the very genius of social order and moneyed respectability. How, then, could a respected member of such a place advance such a mad-brained scheme?
But he had.
Not that he—Dick Faversham—could regard it seriously. Of course he had during the last two years been drawn into a new world, and had been led to accept socialistic ideas. Some, even among the Socialists, called them advanced. But this!
Of course it was impossible.
All the same, there was a great deal in what John Brown had said. A Labour Member. A paid voting machine at £400 a year! The words rankled in his mind.