Milly Freedeman, as she did on most days, had coffee and a sandwich sent in. Afterwards she went into the Prime Minister's office taking a sheaf of memoranda from which she had pruned non-urgent matters that could wait. She left the papers in an 'in' tray on the desk. Its surface was untidily paper-strewn but Milly made no attempt to clear it, aware that in the middle of the day James Howden preferred to find things as he had left them. A plain, single sheet of paper, however, caught her eye. Turning it over curiously she saw it was a photostat.

It took two readings for the full meaning to sink in. When it had, Milly found herself trembling at the awful significance of the paper she held. It explained many things which over the years she had never understood: the convention… the Howden victory… her own loss.

The paper could also, she knew, spell the end of two political careers.

Why was it here? Obviously it had been discussed… today… in the meeting between the Prime Minister and Harvey Warrender. But why? What could either gain? And where was the original?… Her thoughts were racing. The questions frightened her. She wished she had left the paper unturned; that she had never known. And yet…

Suddenly, she experienced a fierce surge of anger against James Howden. How could he have done it? When there had been so much between them; when they could have shared happiness, a future together, if only he had lost the leadership… lost at the convention. She asked herself emotionally: Why didn't he play it fair?… at least leave her a chance to win? But she knew there had never been a chance…

Then, almost as suddenly as before, the anger was gone and sorrow and compassion took its place. What Howden had done, Milly knew, had been done because he had to. The need for power, for vanquished rivals, for political success… these had been all-consuming. Beside them, a personal life… even love… had counted for nothing. It had always been true: there had never been a chance…

But there were practical things to think of.

Milly stopped, willing herself to think calmly. Plainly there was a threat to the Prime Minister and perhaps to others. But James Howden was all that mattered to herself… there was a sense of the past returning. And only this morning, she remembered she had resolved to protect and shield him. But how could she… using this knowledge… knowledge she was certain that no one else possessed, probably not even Margaret Howden. Yes, in this she had at last become closer to James Howden even than his wife.

There was no immediate thing to do. But perhaps an opportunity might come. Sometimes blackmail could be turned against blackmail. The thought was vague, ephemeral… like groping in the dark. But if it happened… if an opportunity came… she must be able to substantiate what she knew.

Milly glanced at her watch. She knew Howden's habits well. It would be another half hour before he returned. No one else was in the outer office.

Acting on impulse she took the photostat to the copying machine outside. Working quickly, her heart beating at a footfall which approached, then passed, she put the photostat through. The copy which came out – a reproduction of a reproduction – was of poor quality and blurred, but clear enough to read, and the handwriting unmistakable. Hastily she folded the extra copy and crammed it to the bottom of her bag. She returned the photostat, face down, as she had found it.

Later in the afternoon James Howden turned the single sheet over and blanched. He had forgotten it was there. If he had left it overnight… He glanced at the outside door. Milly? No; it was a long-standing rule that his desk was never disturbed at midday. He took the photostat into the toilet adjoining his office. Shredding the paper into tiny pieces, he flushed them down, watching until all had gone.

Harvey Warrender reclined comfortably, a slight smile on his face, in the chauffeur-driven pool car which returned him to the Ministry of Citizenship and Immigration on Elgin Street. Alighting from the car, he entered the boxlike brown brick building, breasting a tide of office workers headed outward in a hasty lunchtime exit. He rode an elevator to the fifth floor and entered his own office suite through a direct door. Then, throwing overcoat, scarf, and hat carelessly over a chair, he crossed to his desk and pressed the intercom switch connecting him directly to the department's deputy minister.

'Mr Hess,' Harvey Warrender said, 'if you're free, could you come in, please.'

There was an equally polite acknowledgement, after which he waited. It always took a few minutes for the deputy minister to arrive; his office, though on the same floor, was some distance away, perhaps as a reminder that the administrative head of a ministry should not be sent for lightly or too often.

Harvey Warrender paced the room's deep broadloom slowly and thoughtfully. He still had a sense of elation from his encounter with the Prime Minister. Without any question, he thought, he had come off best, turning what could have been a reverse, or worse, into a clear-cut victory for himself. Moreover, the relationship between the two of them had now been clearly and sharply redefined.

Succeeding the elation came a glow of satisfaction and possession. This was where he belonged: in authority; if not at the pinnacle, then at least in a secondary throne of power. A well-upholstered throne, too, he reflected, glancing around with satisfaction, as he often did. The personal office suite of the Minister of Immigration was the most lavish in Ottawa, having been designed and furnished at large expense by a female predecessor – one of the few women in Canada ever to hold cabinet rank. On taking office himself, he had left the place as he found it – the deep grey carpet, pale grey drapes, a comfortable mixture of English period furniture – and visitors were invariably impressed. It was so very different from the Chilly college cubbyhole in which he had toiled unrewardingly years before and, despite the stirrings of conscience he had confessed to James Howden, he had to admit it would be hard to relinquish the bodily comforts which rank and financial success provided.

The thought of Howden reminded him of his own promise to re-examine the tiresome Vancouver affair and to act precisely by existing law. And he would keep the promise. He was determined there should be no blundering or error in that direction for which Howden or others could blame him later.

A tap at the door, and his own secretary ushered in the deputy minister, Claude Hess, a portly career civil servant who dressed like a prosperous undertaker and sometimes had the pontifical manner to match.

'Good morning, Mr Minister,' Hess said. As always, the deputy managed to combine a judicious mixture of respect and familiarity, though somehow conveying that he had seen elected ministers come and go, and would still be exercising his own power when the present incumbent had moved on.

'I was with the PM,' Warrender said. 'On the carpet.' He had formed the habit of speaking frankly to. Hess, having found it paid off in the shrewd advice he often got in return. On this basis, and pardy because Harvey Warrender had been Immigration Minister through two terms of the Government, their relationship worked well.

The deputy's face assumed a commiserating expression. 'I see,' he said. He had, of course, already received through the higher civil-service grapevine a detailed description of the brawl at Government House, but discreetly refrained from mentioning it.

'One of his beefs,' Harvey said, 'was about the Vancouver business. Some people it seems don't like our keeping to the rules.'

The deputy minister sighed audibly. He had grown used to retreats and back-door dodges by which immigration laws were subverted to political ends. But the Minister's next remark surprised him.