"The police," said the sergeant shortly, "stand aside."

If the police were astonished at the sight which met their gaze, their
faces did not show it. But McCrasky had not such control over his
features and he looked dumbfounded. The room was the same, undoubtedly,
but there was not the vestige of a card to be seen. There were no
tables, and even the bar had disappeared. The chairs were nicely
arranged and most of them were occupied. At the further end of the room
Pony Rowell stood on a platform or on a box or some elevation, and his
pale, earnest face was lighted up with the enthusiasm of the public
speaker. He was saying: "On the purity of the ballot, gentlemen,
depends the very life of the republic. That every man should be
permitted, without interference or intimidation, to cast his vote, and
that every vote so cast should be honestly counted is, I take it, the
desire of all who now listen to my words." (Great applause, during
which Pony took a sip from a glass that may have contained water.)

The police had come in so quietly that no one, apparently, had noticed
their entrance, except that good man Mellish, who hurried forward to
welcome the intruders.

"Will you take a seat?" he asked. "We are having a little political
talk from Mr. Rowell, sergeant."

"Rather an unusual hour, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant grimly.

"It is a little late," admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not
occurred to him before.

The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other