In the car returning from Government House, Margaret asked, 'After what happened tonight, won't Harvey Warrender have to resign?'

'I don't know, dear,' James Howden said thoughtfully. 'He may not want to.'

'Can't you force him?'

He wondered what Margaret would say if he answered truthfully:

No, I can't force Harvey Warrender to resign. And the reason is that somewhere in this city – in a safety deposit box, perhaps – there is a scrap of paper with some handwriting -my own. And if produced and made public, it might just as well be an obituary – or a suicide note from James McCallum Howden.

Instead he answered, 'Harvey has a big following in the party, you know.'

'But surely a following wouldn't excuse what happened tonight.'

He made no answer.

He had never told Margaret about the convention, about the deal that he and Harvey had made nine years ago over the party leadership; the hard-driven deal, with the two of them alone in the small theatrical dressing-room while outside in the big Toronto auditorium their rival factions cheered, awaiting the balloting which had been unaccountably delayed – unaccountably, that is, except to the two chief opponents dealing their cards, face up, behind the scenes.

Nine years. James Howden's thoughts went back…

… They would win the next election. Everyone in the party knew it. There was eagerness, a smell of victory, a sense of things to come.

The party had convened to elect a new leader. It was a virtual certainty that whoever was elected would become Prime Minister within a year. It was a prize and an opportunity which James McCallum Howden had dreamed of all his political life.