A Lost Leader. E. Phillips Oppenheim

V--The Journalist Intervenes CHAPTER VI--Treachery and a Telegram CHAPTER VII--Mr. Mannering, M.P. CHAPTER VIII--Playing the Game CHAPTER IX--The Tragedy of a Key CHAPTER X--Blanche finds a Way Out

BOOK IV

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      CHAPTER I--The Persistency of Borrowdean CHAPTER II--Hester Thinks it "A Great Pity" CHAPTER III--Summoned to Windsor CHAPTER IV--Checkmate to Borrowdean CHAPTER V--A Brazen Proceeding E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels

ILLUSTRATIONS

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      'I am very glad to know you, Mrs. Mannering.'

       'I must have a few words with you before I go back,' he said, nonchalantly.

       She leaned over him, one hand on the back of his chair.

       Sir Leslie never quite forgot her gesture as she motioned him towards the door.

       She was the only beautiful woman who sat alone and companionless.

       'You will find yourself repaid for this, Sir Leslie,' she murmured.

       Mannering rose to play his shot.

       She was already on her way up the grey stone steps.

A LOST LEADER

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BOOK I

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CHAPTER I

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RECONSTRUCTION

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      The two men stood upon the top of a bank bordering the rough road which led to the sea. They were listening to the lark, which had risen fluttering from their feet a moment or so ago, and was circling now above their heads. Mannering, with a quiet smile, pointed upwards.

      "There, my friend!" he exclaimed. "You can listen now to arguments more eloquent than any which I could ever frame. That little creature is singing the true, uncorrupted song of life. He sings of the sunshine, the buoyant air; the pure and simple joy of existence is beating in his little heart. The things which lie behind the hills will never sadden him. His kingdom is here, and he is content."

      Borrowdean's smile was a little cynical. He was essentially of that order of men who are dwellers in cities, and even the sting of the salt breeze blowing across the marshes—marshes riven everywhere with long arms of the sea—could bring no colour to his pale cheeks.

      "Your little bird—a lark, I think you called it," he remarked, "may be a very eloquent prophet for the whole kingdom of his species, but the song of life for a bird and that for a man are surely different things!"

      "Not so very different after all," Mannering answered, still watching the bird. "The longer one lives, the more clearly one recognizes the absolute universality of life."

      Borrowdean shrugged his shoulders, with a little gesture of impatience. He had left London at a moment when he could ill be spared, and had not travelled to this out-of-the-way corner of the kingdom to exchange purposeless platitudes with a man whose present attitude towards life at any rate he heartily despised. He seated himself upon a half-broken rail, and lit a cigarette.

      "Mannering," he said, "I did not come here to simper cheap philosophies with you like a couple of schoolgirls. I have a real live errand. I want to speak to you of great things."

      Mannering moved a little uneasily. He had a very shrewd idea as to the nature of that errand.

      "Of great things," he repeated slowly. "Are you in earnest, Borrowdean?"

      "Why not?"

      "Because," Mannering continued, "I have left the world of great things, as you and I used to regard them, very far behind. I am glad to see you here, of course, but I cannot think of any serious subject which it would be useful or profitable for us to discuss. You understand me, Borrowdean, I am sure!"

      Borrowdean closely eyed this man who once had been his friend.

      "The old sore still rankles, then, Mannering," he said. "Has time done nothing to heal it?"

      Mannering laughed easily.

      "How can you think me such a child?" he exclaimed. "If Rochester himself were to come to see me he would be as welcome as you are. In fact," he continued, more seriously, "if you could only realize, my friend, how peaceful and happy life here may be, amongst the quiet places, you would believe me at once when I assure you that I can feel nothing but gratitude towards those people and those circumstances which impelled me to seek it."

      "What should you think, then," Borrowdean asked, watching his friend through half-closed eyes, "of those who sought to drag you from it?"

      Mannering's laugh was as free and natural as the wind itself. He had bared his head, and had turned directly seawards.

      "Hatred, my dear Borrowdean," he declared, "if I thought that they had a single chance of success. As it is—indifference."

      Borrowdean's eyebrows were raised. He held his cigarette between his fingers, and looked at it for several moments.

      "Yet I am here," he said slowly, "for no other purpose."

      Mannering turned and faced his friend.

      "All I can say is that I am sorry to hear it," he declared. "I know the sort of man you are, Borrowdean, and I know very well that if you have come down here with something to say to me you will say it. Therefore go on. Let us have it over."

      Borrowdean stood up. His tone acquired a new earnestness. He became at once more of a man. The cynical curve of his lips had vanished.

      "We are on the eve of great opportunities, Mannering," he said. "Six months ago the result of the next General Election seemed assured. We appeared to be as far off any chance of office as a political party could be. To-day the whole thing is changed. We are on the eve of a general reconstruction. It is our one great chance of this generation. I come to you as a patriot. Rochester asks you to forget."

      Mannering held up his hand.

      "Stop one moment, Borrowdean," he said. "I want you to understand this once and for all. I have no grievance against Rochester. The old wound, if it ever amounted to that, is healed. If Rochester