COME with me, Marsten,” said Braunt. “Let us get out of this crowd. I want a word with you.”

The two made their way to a quieter street, and walked together towards Rose Garden Court, talking as they went.

“This foolish strike must stop,” began the York-shireman, “and now is the time to stop it. The men are tired of it, and the masters are sick of it; but neither will give in, so a way must be found out of the tangle, and you are the man to find the way.”

“How? The men won’t throw over Gibbons, and Sartwell will resign before he will confer with him. Remember how Gibbons swayed the men last night, in spite of the grumbling there had been against him before the meeting opened.”

“Yes, I know. But, my lad, there is dissension in the other camp as well as in ours. Sartwell’s coming out as he did just now was as much defiance of his masters as of his men. If we knew the truth of it, both Monkton and Hope wanted him to come with them and their bodyguard. He refused. From what I hear, Mr. Hope was so frightened this morning that he could not have spoken if his life had depended upon it. There must have been some hot talk between the three to-day. Sartwell underestimates the danger, and the two owners perhaps overestimate it. What I am sure of is, that there is division between Sartwell and the masters, and when they hear that he came out alone to-night, while they were guarded by twelve policemen, they’ll be more angry than ever, if there’s any spirit in either of them. Now, what you must do to-morrow is to meet either Monkton or Hope, or both if possible. You’ll see they won’t look near the works again until this strike’s ended. I’d go to Mr. Hope first if I were you. He’s had the worst fright. Tell him you want to end the trouble, and he’ll listen willingly. Very likely he has some plan of his own that Sartwell won’t let him try. If you get him to promise to give us what we want if we throw over Gibbons, we’ll spring that on the meeting, and you’ll see, if we work it right, Gibbons will be thrown over. Then there will be no trouble with Sartwell.”

“It seems a treacherous thing to do,” said Marsten, with some hesitation.

“God’s truth, lad,” cried Braunt, with some impatience, “haven’t they been treating you like a traitor ever since this strike began? What’s the difference, if it does look like treachery? Think of the wives and children of the men, if not of the men themselves; think of those that no one has given a thought to all these weeks, the women workers in the top floor of the works. They’ve had little strike pay; they have no vote at the meetings, and they have to suffer and starve when they are willing to work. Treachery? I’d be a traitor a thousand times over to see the works going again.”

“I’ll do it,” said Marsten.

The young man had no money to waste on railway fare, so next morning early he set his face to the west, and trudged along the Portsmouth road the twelve miles’ distance between London and Surbiton.

As he walked up the beautifully kept drive to the Hope mansion, he thought he saw the owner among the trees at the rear, pacing very dejectedly up and down a path. Marsten hesitated a moment, but finally decided to apply formally at the front door. The servant looked at him with evident suspicion, and, after learning his business, promptly returned, saying Mr. Hope could not see him. The door was shut upon him, but Marsten felt sure Mr. Hope had not been consulted in the matter; so, instead of going out by the gate he had entered, he went around the house to the plantation beyond, and there came upon Mr. Hope, who was much alarmed at seeing a stranger suddenly appear before him.

“I am one of your workmen, Mr. Hope,” began Marsten, by way of reassuring the little man; but his words had an entirely opposite effect. Mr. Hope looked wildly to right and left of him, but, seeing no chance of escape, resigned himself, with a deep sigh, to dynamite, or whatever other shape this particular workingman’s arguments might take.

“What do you want?” faltered the employer at last. “I want this strike to end.”

“Oh, so do I, so do I!” cried Mr. Hope, almost in tears.

“Then, Mr. Hope, won’t you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, and see if we cannot find some way out of the difficulty?”

“Surely, surely,” replied the trembling old man, visibly relieved at finding his former employee did not intend to use the stout stick, which he carried in his hand, for the purpose of a personal assault.

“Let us walk a little further from the house, where we can talk quietly. Have you anything to propose?”

“Well, the chief trouble seems to be that Mr. Sart-well will not meet Gibbons.”

“Ah, Sartwell!” said the old man, as if whispering to himself. “Sartwell is a strong man—a strong man; difficult to persuade—difficult to persuade.” Then turning suddenly he asked, “You’re not Gibbons, are you?”

“No, my name is Marsten. Gibbons was the man who tried to speak with you yesterday at the gates.” The old man shuddered at the recollection.

“There were so many there I did not see any one distinctly, and it all took place so suddenly. I don’t remember Gibbons. It was dreadful, dreadful!”

“I hope you were not hurt.”

“No, no. Merely a scratch or two. Nothing to speak of. Now, what can be done about the strike?”

“Would you be prepared to grant the requests of the men, if they were to throw over Gibbons, and send a deputation to Mr. Sartwell?”

“Oh, willingly, most willingly. I don’t at all remember what it is the men want, but we’ll grant it; anything to stop this suicidal struggle. Does Sartwell know you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course he does. He knows every one in the works, by name even. A wonderful man—a wonderful man! I often wish I had more influence with him. Now, if you would go and see Mr. Sartwell—he lives at Wimbledon; it’s on your way; I asked him not to go to the works to-day, so perhaps you will find him at home—you might possibly arrange with him about receiving a deputation. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him that you’ve seen me—yes, I’m sure it’s best not. Then I’ll speak to him about granting the men’s demands. I’ll put my foot down; so will Monkton. We’ll be firm with him.” The old man glanced timidly over his shoulder. “We’ll say to him that we’ve stood at his back about Gibbons, and now he must settle at once with the men when they’ve abandoned Gibbons. Why will he not see Gibbons, do you know? Has he a personal dislike to the man?”

“Oh, no. It is a matter of principle with Mr. Sartwell. Gibbons is not one of your workmen.”

“Ah yes, yes. I remember now. That’s exactly what Sartwell said. Well, I’m very much obliged to you for coming, and I hope these awful occurrences are at an end. Good-by! There’s a train in half an hour that stops at Wimbledon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hope, but I’m on foot to-day.”

“Bless me, it’s a long distance and roundabout by road. The train will get you there in a few minutes.”

Marsten laughed.

“I don’t mind walking,” he said.

The old man looked at him for a few minutes.

“You don’t mean to tell me you have walked all the way from London this morning!”

“It’s only twelve or thirteen miles.”

“Dear dear, dear dear! I see, I see. Yes, Sartwell’s right. I’m not a very brilliant man, although I think one’s manager should not say so before one’s partner. Come with me to the house for a moment.”

“I think I should be off now.”

“No no, come with me. I won’t keep you long; I won’t take a refusal. I’m going to put my foot down, as I said. I have had too little self-assertion in the past. Come along.”

The courageous man led the way towards his dwelling, keeping the trees between himself and the house as much as possible and as long as he could. He shuffled hurriedly across the open space, and went gingerly up the steps at the back of the building, letting himself into a wide hall, and then noiselessly entered a square room that looked out upon the broad lawn and plantation to the rear. The room was lined with books; a solid oak table stood in the centre, flanked by comfortable armchairs. Mr. Hope rang the bell, and held the door slightly ajar.

“Is there any cold meat down-stairs, Susy?” he whispered to the unseen person through the opening.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, bring up enough for two; some pickles, bread and butter, and a bit of cheese.” Then turning to Marsten he asked, “Will you drink wine or beer?”

“Really, Mr. Hope,” said the young man, moistening his lips and speaking with difficulty, “I’m not in the least hungry.”

Which was not true, for the very recital of the articles of food made him feel so faint that he had to lean against the bookcase for support.

“Bring a bottle of beer, please,” whispered the host, softly closing the door.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said to Marsten. “Not hungry? Of course you’re hungry after such a walk, no matter how hearty a breakfast you took before you left.”

While Marsten ate, Mr. Hope said nothing, but sat listening with apparently intense anxiety. Once he rose and cautiously turned the key in the door, breathing easier when this was done.

“Now,” said the old man, when Marsten had finished his meal, “you must go by rail to Wimbledon. Time is of importance—time is of importance. Here is a little money for expenses.”

“I cannot take money from you, Mr. Hope, but thank you all the same.”

“Nonsense, nonsense. You are acting for me, you know.”

“No, sir, I am acting for the men.”

“Well, it’s the same thing. Benefit one, benefit all. Come, come, I insist. I put down my foot. Call it wages, if you like. No doubt you didn’t want to strike.”

“I didn’t want to, but I struck.”

“Same thing, same thing. You must take the money.”

“I’d much rather not, sir.”

Marsten saw the anxiety of his host, who acted as a man might over whose head some disaster impended, and it weakened his resolution not to take the money. He understood that for some reason Mr. Hope wanted him to take the money and be gone.

“Tut, tut,” persisted the old man, eagerly. “We mustn’t let trifles stand in the way of success.”

As he was speaking, an imperious voice sounded in the hall—the voice of a woman. A sudden pallour overspread Mr. Hope’s face, that reminded Marsten of the look it wore when the twelve policemen escorted him and his partner through the crowd.

“Here, here,” said the old man, in a husky whisper, “take the money and say nothing about it—nothing about it.”

Marsten took the money, and slipped it into his pocket. The voice in the hall rang out again.

“Where is Mr. Hope, Susan?” it asked.

“He was in the back walk a few minutes ago, mum.”

Firm footsteps passed down the hall, the outside door opened and shut, and, in the silence, the crunch on the gravel was distinctly heard.

The anxiety cleared away from Mr. Hope’s face like the passing of a cloud, and a faint smile hovered about his lips. He seemed to have forgotten Marsten’s presence in the intensity of the moment.

“Clever girl, Susy—so I was, so I was,” he murmured to himself.

“Good-by, and thank you, Mr. Hope,” said Marsten, rising. “I will go at once and see Mr. Sartwell.”

“Yes, yes. In a moment—in a moment,” said the old man, with a glance out of the window. His voice sank into an apologetic tone as he added, as if asking a favour: “Won’t you take some money with you, to be given anonymously—anonymously, mind—to the committee for the men? You see, the negotiations may take a few days, and I understand they are badly off—badly off.”

Even Marsten smiled at this suggestion.

“I don’t see how that could be managed. I shall have to tell the men I have been to see you, or at least some of them, and they might misunderstand. I think, perhaps——”

“I see—I see. There is a difficulty, of course. I shall send it in the usual way to the papers. That’s the best plan.”

“To the papers?” said Marsten, astonished.

The old man looked at him in alarm.

“I didn’t intend to mention that. As you say, it might be misunderstood—misunderstood. The world seems to be made up of misunderstandings, but you’ll not say anything about it, will you? I did it in a roundabout way, so as not to cause any ill feeling, under the name of ‘Well-wisher,’ Merely trifles, you know; trifles, now and then. Sartwell said the strike would end in a fortnight or three weeks. He’s a clever man, Sartwell—a clever man—but was mistaken in that. We all make mistakes one time or another. I wouldn’t care for him to know, you see, that I contributed anonymously to the strike fund; he might think it prolonged the strike, and perhaps it did—perhaps it did. It is difficult to say what one’s duty is in a case like this—very difficult. So perhaps it is best to mention this to no one.”

“I shall never breathe a word about it, Mr. Hope.”

“That’s right—that’s right. I am very glad you came, and I’ll speak to Sartwell about you when we get in running order again. Now just come out by the front door this time, and when you speak to Mr. Sartwell be careful not to say anything that might appear to criticise his actions in any way. Don’t cross him—don’t cross him. The easiest way is generally the best. If any one has to put a foot down, leave that to me—leave that to me.”

The manufacturer himself let his employee out by the front entrance, and the young man walked briskly to Surbiton Station.