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remembered the remains of his desperate diplomacy.
“This can’t go on,” he said, positively. “Men like MacIan and I may suffer unjustly all our lives, but a man like you must have influence.”
“There is only one man who has any influence in England now,” said Vane, and his high voice fell to a sudden and convincing quietude.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Turnbull.
“I mean that cursed fellow with the long split chin,” said the other.
“Is it really true,” asked Turnbull, “that he has been allowed to buy up and control such a lot? What put the country into such a state?”
Mr. Cumberland Vane laughed outright. “What put the country into such a state?” he asked. “Why, you did. When you were fool enough to agree to fight MacIan, after all, everybody was ready to believe that the Bank of England might paint itself pink with white spots.”
“I don’t understand,” answered Turnbull. “Why should you be surprised at my fighting? I hope I have always fought.”
“Well,” said Cumberland Vane, airily, “you didn’t believe in religion, you see—so we thought you were safe at any rate. You went further in