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“In other words,” he went on, “we need you to do your level best here.”
    “To be sure,” Lenox responded and nodded with what he hoped was appropriate comprehension and solemnity.
    Of course, what all this meant was that they wanted Lenox to spend money. The vast majority of parliamentary campaigns were self-funded or else funded by powerful local interests. Lenox was happy to lay out his own money, as his father and brother had. Still, Hilary’s message was, even if friendly in delivery, clear in intent. As Lenox already knew, their Conservative opponent, a brewer named Robert Roodle, was quite willing to lay out money on votes. Still, Lenox felt confident that the bank drafts in his pocket would be sufficient to argue his case (for broader civil rights and a firm but reasonable international policy) to the people of Stirrington.
    That morning had been a busy one. First Lenox had dressed, as the harried servants packed; then the budding politician had written a brief but loving note to Lady Jane next door, begging her tolerance for his hasty departure, and a similar, more somber note to McConnell, promising his swift return and sending his dearest wish that Toto would recover quickly. Graham, it was decided, would follow on the evening train. Then a dash through dawn to the train station, followed by long hours of travel and conversation. Lenox was ready for lunch and a moment to breathe, in whatever order he could get them. Alas, the first was makeshift, and the second they skipped.
    Their first destination was a pub, the Queen’s Arms, which dated to Queen Anne’s reign. They were going there to meet Lenox’s political agent, his chief local strategist and the man whom Lenox and Hilary hoped would deliver a large block of business voters, Mr. Edward Crook. It wasn’t a promising name.
    “He’s the proprietor of the place,” said Hilary as they drove through the town. “Apparently from a long-standing Stirrington family, much respected here.”
    Lenox was observing what he could: maids stringing up laundry, a small but fair church, a slightly more bitter cold than London. “Any family?”
    Hilary consulted his notes. “Wife, deceased. No children. Crook’s niece lives with him and keeps his house, a girl named Nettie.”
    “What’s Crook’s political history?”
    “He helped Stoke win—but as you know that was no great achievement. The Stoke name means a good deal in this area, and Stoke has run largely unopposed since he first came into office. Before either of our times, of course. Undistinguished but loyal.”
    “So Crook hasn’t much experience?”
    Hilary frowned. “I suppose not much, but we have firm knowledge of his stature within the community. Apparently there’s a consortium of shop and tavern owners who listen to his every word. Shop owners, Lenox, win elections of this rural sort.”
    “Yes?”
    Hilary laughed. “By God, you’re lucky to run in such a place. My seat”—he represented part of Liverpool—“took a good deal more money and a great deal more maneuvering than this one will.”
    Soon they pulled up to the Queen’s Arms. It was a distinguished-looking public house, with whitewashed walls that had black beams running across them, giving it a rather Tudor feel. An ornately painted, and really rather beautiful, sign depicted Anne with a crown and a detailed image of the world beneath her foot. There were stables to the rear of the house, rooms upstairs, and, from what they saw through the windows, a spacious one-room bar below.
    They went in and found a hot, roaring fire at one end and a decent trade for the time of day; in chalk on a board were lunch specials (lamb with potatoes, hearty beef stew, hot wine), and Lenox’s hunger returned to him with a growl. A pretty, busy girl was coming to and fro from the kitchen, while a massive, red-nosed gentleman stood behind the bar, pouring drinks with surprisingly deft hands. He had on a bottle green spencer jacket, and a