Belturbet, who had made several fruitless attempts to ring up his young friend since the fateful morning in St James’s Park, ran him to earth one afternoon at his club, smooth and spruce and unruffled as ever.

‘Tell me, what on earth have you turned Cocksley Coxon into?’ Belturbet asked anxiously, mentioning the name of one of the pillars of unorthodoxy in the Anglican Church. ‘I don’t fancy he believes in angels, and if he finds an angel preaching orthodox sermons from his pulpit while he’s been turned into a fox- terrier, he’ll develop rabies in less than no time.’

‘I rather think it was a fox-terrier,’ said the Duke lazily.

Belturbet groaned heavily, and sank into a chair.

‘Look here, Eugene,’ he whispered hoarsely, having first looked well round to see that no one was within hearing range, ‘you’ve got to stop it. Consols are jumping up and down like bronchos, and that speech of Halfour’s in the House last night has simply startled everybody out of their wits. And then on the top if it, Thistlebery—’

‘What has he been saying?’ asked the Duke quickly.

‘Nothing. That’s just what’s so disturbing. Every one thought it was simply inevitable that he should come out with a great epochmaking speech at this juncture, and I’ve just seen on the tape that he has refused to address any meetings at present, giving as a reason his opinion that something more than mere speech-making was wanted.’

The young Duke said nothing, but his eyes shone with quiet exultation.

‘It’s so unlike Thistlebery,’ continued Belturbet; ‘at least,’ he said suspiciously, ‘it’s unlike the real Thistlebery—’

‘The real Thistlebery is flying about somewhere as a vocally industrious lapwing,’ said the Duke calmly; ‘I expect great things of the Angel-Thistlebery,’ he added.

At this moment there was a magnetic stampede of members towards the lobby, where the tape-machines were ticking out some news of more than ordinary import.

‘Coup d’état in the North. Thistlebery seizes Edinburgh Castle. Threatens civil war unless Government expands naval programme.’

In the babel which ensued Belturbet lost sight of his young friend. For the best part of the afternoon he searched one likely haunt after another, spurred on by the sensational posters which the evening papers were displaying broadcast over the West End. ‘General Baden-Baden mobilises Boy-Scouts. Another coup d’état feared. Is Windsor Castle safe?’ This was one of the earlier posters, and was followed by one of even more sinister purport: ‘Will the Test-match have to be postponed?’ It was this disquietening question which brought home the real seriousness of the situation to the London public, and made people wonder whether one might not pay too high a price for the advantages of party government. Belturbet, questing round in the hope of finding the originator of the trouble, with a vague idea of being able to induce him to restore matters to their normal human footing, came across an elderly club acquaintance who dabbled extensively in some of the more sensitive market securities. He was pale with indignation, and his pallor deepened as a breathless newsboy dashed past with a poster inscribed: ‘Premier’s constituency harried by moss-troopers. Halfour sends encouraging telegram to rioters. Letchworth Garden City threatens reprisals. Foreigners taking refuge in Embassies and National Liberal Club.’

‘This is devils’ work!’ he said angrily.

Belturbet knew otherwise.