"The poll opens at eight to-morrow morning," said the Chief Organiser;
"we must have him out by 7 a.m."

"Seven-thirty," amended the Prime Minister; "we must avoid any appearance
of precipitancy."

"Not later than seven-thirty, then," said the Chief Organiser; "I have
promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display posters
announcing 'Platterbaff is Out,' before the poll opens. He said it was
our only chance of getting a telegram 'Radprop is In' to-night."

At half-past seven the next morning the Prime Minister and the Chief
Organiser sat at breakfast, making a perfunctory meal, and awaiting the
return of the Home Secretary, who had gone in person to superintend the
releasing of Platterbaff. Despite the earliness of the hour a small
crowd had gathered in the street outside, and the horrible menacing
Trelawney refrain of the "Fifteen Hundred Voting Men" came in a steady,
monotonous chant.

"They will cheer presently when they hear the news," said the Prime
Minister hopefully; "hark! They are booing some one now! That must be
McKenna."

The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on
his face.

"He won't go!" he exclaimed.

"Won't go? Won't leave gaol?"