Edna rapped lightly on the door at the back of the Salvation Hall, and heard Marsten’s voice shout “Come in.” After a moment’s hesitation she opened the door and entered. The young man was alone, sitting at the rough board table, with some papers before him, writing rapidly with a pencil. He seemed absorbed in his work, and kept his head bent over it, saying shortly:

“Well, what is it?”

Edna stood with her back against the door; she tried to speak, but could not. Her heart was beating so rapidly that it seemed to choke her, and her lips were dry. The murmur of numerous voices came through the thin board partitions from the main hall, with the noise of the shuffling of many feet. Marsten continued to write quickly; then suddenly he lifted his head with a jerk, stared incredulously in the gathering darkness, and sprang to his feet.

“My God—Edna!” he cried, and seemed about to advance towards her; but she raised her hand, and he stood by the table with his knuckles resting upon it.

“I came——” She spoke in a whisper, so husky and unnatural that it seemed to her the voice belonged to some one else. “I came——to speak to you——about the strike.”

“Yes?”

“It must stop.”

“It will stop within a day or two. Monkton & Hope are defeated.”

“You mean that my father is defeated. It is killing him, I can see that, although he tries——He does not know I have come here. I came of my own accord because you——If you will get the men to go back, I give you my word that he will grant all you are fighting for. All I ask is that you will not make it hard for him. The men do not care as long as they get what they want. Will you do this?”

“Do you mean I am to call the strike off and pretend that the men are defeated?”

“Yes. It will be all the same in the end.”

“Oh, I cannot do that.”

“Why? The men do not care as long as they get what they ask. With my father it is different. He is breaking down. I know I am asking a great deal of you, for you feel as he does, and want to win as badly as he does; but he is old, and you are young. You have all the world before you. What need you care, then, whether you win this strike or not? There are other strikes for you to win, but he—he is fighting his last battle.”

Her voice had become clearer and more like itself as she earnestly pleaded for her father. Some one in the main building had started a rollicking music-hall song then as infectious as an epidemic on the streets of London. The whole house had joined in the swinging chorus, beating time with the tramp of many feet. Neither of the two appeared to hear the song, but both raised their voices slightly to make themselves heard above the sound.

“I care nothing for any personal triumph—nothing at all,” said Marsten. “If I could change places with your father and accept defeat for him I willingly would. But the men have trusted me——”

“The men!” cried Edna, the scarlet chasing the whiteness from her cheeks as her eyes flashed and her voice rose. “What do the men care? Listen to them!” She waved her hand toward the hall. “They would sing and shout like that if their best friend was dying. Who has done more for his men than my father? He risked his life for them at the fire, and would do so again. He has built up the works that have given them employment. He has kept the shops full at a loss when times were bad, so that they might not starve. Every man was sure of his place as long as he deserved it, and no master in London was more loath than he to discharge a man.” She cast down her eyes as she suddenly remembered that one man had been discharged without cause by her father; then, without raising them, she pleaded again: “Why will not a real victory, without the name of it, satisfy you?”

“Because it is not for these men alone who are now shouting that I am fighting. The eyes of all England are on this strike. An acknowledged victory over so strong a firm as that of Monkton & Hope will mean an easier victory for every man who is now earning his bread in this country, when he is compelled to strike for his just due. It will hearten every workingman and be a warning to every employer.”

The chorus in the hall was broken by three sharp raps of a mallet on a table. The sound of the singing subsided, and the voice of some one calling the meeting to order was heard.

Edna slowly raised her eyes and looked at him, with a flash of fearing defiance in them. She spoke in an agitated whisper.

“You remember what you said to me in the garden at Eastbourne. If you will do what I ask of you, I will do as you wish when—when you ask me.”

The young man, his trembling right hand clenching and unclenching nervously, strode a step forward.

“No, no!” she cried. “Stay where you are. Answer me, answer me!”

“Oh, Edna,” he whispered, “God knows I would do anything to win you,—anything,—yes, almost what you ask!”

“Yes, or no?” she cried. “Answer me!”

“I cannot be a traitor to the men!”

As if in approval of this sentiment, a cheer rose from the hall. Some one was speaking, and even in his misery Marsten recognized the voice of Gibbons.

Edna turned without a word and opened the door. Marsten followed her out.

“Stay where you are,” she said, with a sob.

“I will see you to the station.”

“No; you must not come near me. I hope never to see you again.”

“I will see you to the station,” repeated Marsten, doggedly.

The girl said nothing more, but walked hurriedly down the narrow passage, the young man following her. She sprang into the waiting hansom, crying, “Waterloo; quick!”

The cab whirled away, leaving Marsten standing bareheaded on the kerb. He remained there for some moments, gazing in the direction the cab had taken, then turned with a sigh and walked slowly up the passage to his room. It seemed more bare and empty than ever it had been before, and he could hardly realize that, a few short moments since, she had stood within it. He heard, without heeding, the noise from the hall, like the low growl of some wild beast. He looked at the papers on the table, wrinkling his brow trying to understand what they were all about. It appeared ages since he sat there writing—now he heard nothing but the words “Answer me!” ringing in his ears. He was startled by another knock at the door and sprang towards it, throwing it eagerly open, hoping she had returned. Monkton & Hope’s tall, grizzled commissionaire, in his uniform, with the medal dangling from his breast, stood there, perhaps astonished at the sudden opening of the door, but not a muscle of his face showing his surprise. He saluted gravely.

“A letter from the firm, sir.”

“Ah! Step inside. Any answer required?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the commissionaire, standing as straight and as rigid as if on parade.

Marsten tore open the envelope, and the reading of the letter brought him to his senses. It was a terse communication, and informed him that Monkton & Hope agreed to the terms of the men. Mr. Sartwell would wait at his office until ten o’clock to meet M Marsten and arrange for the opening of the works in the morning.

Marsten dashed off an official reply, and said he would wait on Mr. Sartwell in half an hour’s time. Giving this note to the commissionaire, who again saluted and withdrew, Marsten, with the letter in his hand, opened the door that communicated with the platform and stepped out in the sight of the meeting. A howl of derision greeted his appearance, and the howl of an angry mob is a sound that, once heard, a man never wishes to hear again.

“There he is,” shouted Gibbons, whose speech Marsten’s entrance had evidently interrupted. “There he is, and let him deny it if he can!”

“Deny what?” cried Marsten.

“Deny that you have been in communication with the enemy! Deny that Sartwell’s daughter has only this moment left you!”

“That has nothing to do with you, nor with this strike. England is a free country; a man may talk with whom he pleases.”

“He can’t deny it!” shouted Gibbons, at the top of his voice. “There were too many witnesses this time. She didn’t know that a meeting was gathering. Where now is the man at the back of the hall who cried out it was a lie? I told you I would prove it by Marsten himself.”

“Let me read you this letter,” cried Marsten, waving in his hand the letter from the firm, to command attention. He saw the crowd was in that dangerous state of excitement which requires but an injudicious word to precipitate a riot. His own friends, evidently abashed by his admission, were at the back of the hall, silent and disconcerted. The Gibbons gang were massed in front, wildly gesticulating, and vociferous with taunts and threats. They were loudly calling upon him to get down from the platform. He saw, too, that the old committee and others of Gibbons’s partisans were on the platform behind him, many standing up with their eyes on Gibbons, and the situation reminded him of the time when Braunt had been kicked off the platform and thrust outside.

“Let me read this letter,” he repeated.

“Presently, presently,” said Gibbons. “You will have your opportunity later on. I have the floor just now.”

“I am secretary of the Union,” persisted Marsten, “and I demand a hearing. After that you may do as you please.”

Here the chairman rose and called loudly:

“Order, order! Mr. Gibbons has the floor. I may add for Mr. Marsten’s information, since he chose to absent himself from the meeting knowing it was in session, that Mr. Gibbons has been made secretary of the Union by a practically unanimous vote, and I ask Mr. Marsten to leave the platform until he is called upon to speak.”

“I have a letter from the firm!” shouted Marsten, trying to lift his voice above the uproar.

There was a chorus of howls, and roars of “Chair, Chair!” “Come down!” One of the men behind Marsten pushed him toward the edge of the platform, crying, “Obey the Chair!” This was the signal for a general onset, and, Marsten grappling with the foremost of his assailants, both went down together to the main floor. Instantly the meeting broke into an unmanageable mob, while Gibbons roared, “No violence, men!” and ineffectually waved his arms over the turbulent, seething, struggling mass. His appeals were as futile as Canute’s commands to the sea. The chairman pounded unheard on the table with his mallet. Once Marsten shook himself free and rose to his feet. His right hand, with the tattered letter still clenched in it, appeared above the heads of the combatants for a moment, then it suddenly disappeared, and he went down finally under the feet of the maddened, trampling horde.

The police struck in promptly and with effect. The side door was thrown open, and Marsten was dragged out through it, accompanied by several struggling, torn, and bleeding rioters who had been nabbed by the law. Gradually the pounding on the table became audible, and Gibbons’s voice, now hoarse with useless calling for peace, could be heard.

“I am sorry,” he began, “that there has been even a semblance of a disturbance here to-night. It will be used by our enemies against us; but, as you know, it all came about through disobedience to the Chair. I want to say nothing against an absent man, and I am sure we all hope he has not been hurt [cheers]; but if our ex-secretary had calmly bowed to the will of the meeting, and had refrained from laying hands on the man who merely requested him to obey the Chair, this deplorable event would not have occurred. When, after the last strike, you lost confidence in me, I bowed to the will of the majority without a murmur, and, as you all know, I have done my best, ever since, to assist my successor; and now that I have been called again to this position, through no wish of mine, I have but to obey the mandate thus given. I take it that it is your pleasure that this strike shall now cease. Although I have never said so, I always looked upon the present strike as an unnecessary one, and unjust. The firm, a short time since, voluntarily increased our wages, and this struggle has consequently never had the sympathy of the public, without which no great struggle can succeed. I do not venture to offer suggestions, but if any one here has a suggestion to make, I now give place to him.”

Gibbons did love the sound of his own voice, and it apparently gave pleasure to the majority present, for they loudly cheered all his noble sentiments.

A man promptly arose to his feet, and said it had lately been only too evident that Marsten had brought on this strike to further his own advancement, using the men, who trusted him, as tools for that purpose. Gibbons had said nothing on this point, but they all felt sore about it nevertheless; and although he admired Gibbons’s good heart in refusing to say a word against a fallen enemy, still the matter ought to be referred to. He moved that Gibbons be appointed to meet Sartwell as soon as possible and arrange terms for going back, getting, if he could, a promise that the “blacklegs” be discharged. There would be general satisfaction if this promise could be secured.

This was seconded, and carried unanimously. Once more Gibbons rose to his feet.

“A messenger I sent off a few moments ago reports that Sartwell is still in his office. He has been staying late for some time past, so it struck me he might be there now. I will go at once and confer with him, and will return as soon as possible and give you the result of the conference. Meanwhile you can transact any other business that may come before the meeting.”

Sartwell, alone in his office, expecting Marsten, was naturally surprised when Gibbons entered instead but he greeted the new-comer without showing that his visit was unlooked for.

“Mr. Sartwell,” began Gibbons, going straight to the point, “I have again been made secretary of the Union. If I end this strike will you make me assistant manager?”

Sartwell’s eyes partially closed, and he looked keenly at his visitor through the narrow slits for a moment or two before answering.

Gibbons fidgeted uneasily.

“We all play for our own hand, you know,” the new secretary added, laughing uncomfortably, “and I know that with you it is better to say out what one means.”

“We all play for our own hand,—yes,” said Sartwell, slowly. “Can you end the strike?”

“I think so.”

“You only think so. Well, Mr. Gibbons, come back to me when you are sure, and I will talk to you.”

“I am sure, if it comes to that.”

“Ah, that is a different matter. The meeting, then, after making you secretary, passed a resolution to end the strike?”

“Hardly that, Mr. Sartwell. It has authorized me to negotiate with you. Now, if you promise me the assistant managership, I will bring the men back tomorrow.”

“The strike was bound to end soon without any promises from me. I sent a communication to Mars-ten to-night regarding it. Do you mean to hint that he has not read it to the meeting?”

“He did not. He tried to, but the men had enough of Marsten, and they refused to listen.”

“Quite so. Then it is with you alone I have to deal? Marsten is out of it?”

“That is the state of the case.”

“Well, I am sorry I cannot offer you the assistant managership; although, of course, I hope the strike will end as speedily as possible.”

“Marsten said you offered it to him; is that true?”

“I think Marsten generally speaks the truth. Let us stop beating about the bush, Gibbons. The men to-night have either resolved to come back, or they have not. If they are coming back, they will come whether I deal with you or not. If not, then I don’t see how you can say more than that you will do your best to bring them back. Now, all I shall promise is this: if you bring the men back to-morrow, I will see that your position in the works is improved.”

“That’s rather hard lines, Mr. Sartwell. Marsten brought on the strike, and you offer him the assistant managership. I end the strike, and you will make no definite terms.”

“I offered Marsten the position before the strike began. Once the fight was on, it had to be fought to a finish. The finish has come, and I think you had better accept the only terms I can offer. Don’t you see that, if I were not a man of my word, I could easily promise you anything, and then discharge you a month hence?”

“Well, I’ll trust to your generosity, Mr. Sartwell. Now, what will you promise to the men?”

“What do they ask?”

“They wish you to discharge all the blacklegs you have engaged.”

“I’m afraid, Gibbons, I cannot promise that either. I will, however, send home all who want to go and can find situations, but your men will not suffer on account of the new employees. I have work enough for you all; there will be plenty to do to make up for lost time.”

“You practically offer us nothing, Mr. Sartwell.”

“Oh yes, I do; I am conceding more than you think. I said in my wrath, when the men went out, that I would never again allow a Union man to set foot in the works: but now that they have chosen a moderate, sensible secretary, I am willing to have them come back, allowing them still to remain in the Union. Is that nothing? I think I have been most conciliatory under the circumstances.”

“The meeting is still in session, Mr. Sartwell. Would you mind coming with me and telling the men that you will guarantee every one a place, and that you will not interfere with their membership of the Union?”

“I don’t mind going with you, but you can probably make more out of the concessions than I, for you are more eloquent on your feet. I will simply corroborate what you say, and tell the men the gates will be open for them to-morrow. Meanwhile, just wait for me at the gate. I have a few orders to give my commissionaire.”

The uniformed man answered Sartwell’s call, and stood like a statue to receive his orders. The manager closed the door.

“I am afraid there is not much sleep for you tonight, Commissionaire,” he said, in a low voice, “but we will make that up to you in some other way, and when the men come back to-morrow you may sleep the whole of the following week, if you like. As soon as Gibbons and I are away, and you have closed the office, I want you to search for Marsten. You will likely find him in his room. I don’t know where he lives, but that you will have to find out—quietly, you understand. Ask him from me to give you back the letter you brought to him this evening. If he refuses, ask him not to show it to any one until he sees me in the morning.”

The commissionaire brought his heels together sharply, and presently went forth on his vain search; for Marsten, unconscious, had been taken in an ambulance to St. Martyrs’ Hospital, with the remnants of the letter firmly clutched in his clenched fist.