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Found shot in his brougham in the Bois de Boulogne. His coachman was arrested but eventually discharged. The man swore he heard no shot or cry from his master. It was raining at the time, and there were few pedestrians in the Bois.
    (Here followed ten other cases, all on a par with those quoted above, including the cases of Trelovitch and le Blois.)
    * * *
    It was undoubtedly a great story.
    The Editor-in-Chief, seated in his office, read it over again and said, ‘Very good indeed.’
    The reporter – whose name was Smith – read it over and grew pleasantly warm at the consequences of his achievement.
    The Foreign Secretary read it in bed as he sipped his morning tea, and frowningly wondered if he had said too much.
    The chief of the French police read it – translated and telegraphed – in Le Temps , and furiously cursed the talkative Englishman who was upsetting his plans.
    In Madrid, at the Café de la Paix, in the Place of the Sun, Manfred, cynical, smiling, and sarcastic, read extracts to three men – two pleasantly amused, the other heavy-jowled and pasty of face, with the fear of death in his eyes.

Chapter 2
    The faithful Commons
    Somebody – was it Mr Gladstone? – placed it on record that there is nothing quite so dangerous, quite so ferocious, quite so terrifying as a mad sheep. Similarly, as we know, there is no person quite so indiscreet, quite so foolishly talkative, quite so amazingly gauche, as the diplomat who for some reason or other has run off the rails.
    There comes a moment to the man who has trained himself to guard his tongue in the Councils of Nations, who has been schooled to walk warily amongst pitfalls digged cunningly by friendly Powers, when the practice and precept of many years are forgotten, and he behaves humanly. Why this should be has never been discovered by ordinary people, although the psychological minority who can generally explain the mental processes of their fellows, have doubtless very adequate and convincing reasons for these acts of disbalancement.
    Sir Philip Ramon was a man of peculiar temperament.
    I doubt whether anything in the wide world would have arrested his purpose once his mind had been made up. He was a man of strong character, a firm, square-jawed, big-mouthed man, with that shade of blue in his eyes that one looks for in peculiarly heartless criminals, and particularly famous generals. And yet Sir Philip Ramon feared, as few men imagined he feared, the consequence of the task he had set himself.
    There are thousands of men who are physically heroes and morally poltroons, men who would laugh at death – and live in terror of personal embarrassments. Coroner’s courts listen daily to the tale of such men’s lives – and deaths.
    The Foreign Secretary reversed these qualities. Good animal men would unhesitatingly describe the Minister as a coward, for he feared pain and he feared death.
    ‘If this thing is worrying you so much,’ the Premier said kindly – it was at the Cabinet Council two days following the publication of the Megaphone ’s story – ‘why don’t you drop the Bill? After all, there are matters of greater importance to occupy the time of the House, and we are getting near the end of the session.’
    An approving murmur went round the table.
    ‘We have every excuse for dropping it. There must be a horrible slaughtering of the innocents – Braithewaite’s Unemployed Bill must go; and what the country will say to that, Heaven only knows.’
    ‘No, no!’ The Foreign Secretary brought his fist down on the table with a crash. ‘It shall go through; of that I am determined. We are breaking faith with the Cortes, we are breaking faith with France, we are breaking faith with every country in the Union. I have promised the passage of this measure – and we must go through with it, even though there are a thousand “Just Men”, and a thousand threats.’
    The Premier shrugged his shoulders.
    ‘Forgive me for saying so, Ramon,’ said