down, Corbitt. Don't you become as mad in one direction as Stranleigh is in another."
Corbitt laughed.
"I'm afraid, Sir George, you do not understand the ethics of the sandbag. If you hit a man on the head with a sledge-hammer, you fracture his skull and kill him. The sandbag breaks no bones. It merely knocks the victim insensible, and then you can do what you please with him. He never knows what struck him. Now, watch me sandbag Stranleigh without leaving this room."
The manager crossed over to the writing-table at which Stranleigh had sat a few minutes before. He wrote a letter and addressed an envelope, then returned to his chief, who awaited him with anxious face.
"Lester Brent," explained Corbitt, "is by way of being a friend of mine. I have done him one or two good turns in business, and he believes a banker has no politics. He is Chairman of the Government Elections Committee. Now, hear my truthful epistle to him:—
"Dear Brent,—With a General Election pending, do not get alarmed at receiving a letter from an Opposition Club, but treat this communication as
