After a time he began to doubt whether he had heard this sound.
He began to reason interminably with himself. Why after all was he seized? Caterham had been in office two days—just long enough—to grasp his Nettle! Grasp his Nettle! Grasp his Giant Nettle! The refrain once started, sang through his mind and would not be dismissed.
What after all could Caterham do? He was a religious man. He was bound in a sort of way by that not to do violence without a cause.
Grasp his Nettle! Perhaps for example the Princess was to be seized and sent abroad. There might be trouble with his son. In which case—! But why had he been arrested? Why was it necessary to keep him in ignorance of a thing like that? The thing suggested—something more extensive.
Perhaps, for example—they meant to lay all the giants by the heels. They were all to be arrested together. There had been hints of that in the election speeches. And then?
No doubt they had got Cossar also?
Caterham was a religious man. Redwood clung to that. The back of his mind was a black curtain, and on that curtain there came and went a word—a word written in letters of fire. He struggled perpetually against that word. It was always as it were beginning to get written on the curtain and never getting completed.
He faced it at last. "Massacre!" There was the word in its full brutality.
No! No! No! It was impossible! Caterham
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