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being an honourable man, Strafford proposed to abandon his political career for the woman he loved, who, in turn, undertook to detach herself from the Suffragette cause and become a devoted wife. But the path of honour did not bring him salvation. His plan was unimpeach-able, yet its execution went awry in the most mysterious manner.
    Strafford submitted his resignation, intending that it should immediately be followed by an announcement of his engagement.
    But no such announcement could be made because, but a few hours after delivering his letter of resignation to 10 Downing Street, he was rejected in the most outright terms by his fiancée.
    She renounced their engagement for reasons she refused to disclose and asked that Strafford should never attempt to see her again. He was devastated.”
    “As well he might be,” I said. “Why did she do it?”
    “Strafford never knew. Shattered as he was by his rejection, all he could do at the time was attempt to re-build his way of life, which he had been so busily demolishing. The day after his resignation, he called again at number 10, intending to rescind it.”
    “Intending?”
    “Yes, but it was not to be. The Prime Minister refused to hear of it, though not because he felt he was being trifled with, nor because he disapproved of Strafford’s now aborted marriage. He cited other reasons which he declined to specify but which he felt sure Strafford could guess. Actually, he could not. This was a second inexplicable rejection from a source which had hitherto shown him only favour. Strafford was beside himself with despair.
    He brooded over it endlessly. It became the tragedy and the mystery of his life, and prompted him to compile this Memoir, many years later, when at last he could bear to commit it to paper.”
    “That could be the sort of mystery we spoke about earlier.”
    “I think it is, Martin—a mystery worthy of an historian such as yourself. Which is why I was delighted to hear you were to visit Alec, who spoke so highly of your abilities.”
    I glanced quizzically at Alec. This was the second time I’d heard of his advance publicity for me. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, forestalling me. “But do you seriously suppose 28

R O B E R T G O D D A R D
    I would have spoken well of you if I’d thought it would get back to you? Leo’s betrayed my confidence.” He turned to the old man with mock outrage.
    “Let us close with a smile,” said Sellick. “It is late and I must take these tired old bones to bed. Here is the Memoir, Martin”—he handed me the heavy volume—“for you to peruse at your leisure. Take my advice and leave it till morning—I’d value your opinion on it both as an historical document and as a personal testament. But then, we’d probably agree that they’re the same thing anyway. The room next to the one you always have, Alec, has been prepared for Martin. I trust I can leave you to show him up when you’re ready. Now I must bid you goodnight. Sleep well.”
    With that, Sellick left us. Alec poured himself another drink and we fell to a desultory discussion about the warmth of our reception. I detected in Alec’s manner a slight sourness, though whether this arose from boredom, having heard the story before, or from some resentment that I’d monopolised Sellick’s attention, I couldn’t say. Alec himself denied the former and I dismissed the latter as an unworthy suspicion, but I was relieved when he did not demur at showing me up to my room.
    Once there, I moved to the window and opened it. The shutters had been thrown back in readiness and I sniffed the cool night air wafting in across the garden behind the house. I’d hoped it might refresh me enough to turn to the Memoir that night, but Sellick had been right—it deserved a clear, wakeful head. So I confined myself to a glance at the title page in bed. One short paragraph served as prologue to the Memoir proper.
    “In this volume I, Edwin George Strafford,