He had stung Leicester at last. All the cheap veneer of cynicism was gone now, and he did not know what to say.
"Just look at this," went on Mr. Grayburn. "This is an account of last night's meeting, brought out by the editor of the opposition paper. It seems that he and the reporter got into the ante-room, and the reporter is a clever caricaturist in his way. Here you are in various attitudes: First, Mr. Leicester rising to address the meeting. Second, Mr. Leicester endeavouring to proceed. Third, Mr. Leicester finishing his speech. Fourth, Mr. Leicester in the ante-room. How could we stand by you in face of pictures like these?"
As Leicester looked at the sheet which Mr. Grayburn exhibited, he realised the meaning of the other's words. Each picture showed him in a state of drunken helplessness, and under each picture was a quotation from what he had said, so spelt as to bear out the fact of his intoxication.
"Did I say this?" he stammered.
"You did, Mr. Leicester; that, and more."
He was silent for a moment, and then through the open windows of the room he heard shouting in the street.
"Wha'! Rafford Lester drunk! Cood'n be drunk. Sober 's judge. Friend o' temperance. Hooray for pardy sbriety!"
A shout of laughter followed, brutal, derisive, laughter, and he, Leicester, was the cause of it. He walked to the window and saw a crowd of people outside the hotel; they were looking towards him. No sooner did they see him than they began to shout and laugh derisively.
"You wish me to resign," he said quietly.
"My committee, which met this morning, asked me to wait on you for that purpose."