deserves to be treated as such. Tell
me, on behalf of the people, Mr. Maraton, what is it that you want?
Name your terms?"

Maraton shook his head doubtfully.

"You are a brave man, Mr. Foley," he said, "but remember that you do
not stand alone. There are your fellow Ministers."

"They are my men," Mr. Foley insisted. "Besides, there is the thunder
in the air. We cannot disregard it. We are not ostriches. Better to
meet the trouble bravely than to be crushed by it."

There was a tap at the door, and Lady Elisabeth appeared upon the
threshold. Maraton was conscious of realising for the first time that
this was the most beautiful woman whom he had ever seen in his life.
She avoided looking at him as she addressed her uncle.

"Uncle," she said deprecatingly, "I am so sorry, but every one is asking
for you. You have been in here for nearly twenty minutes. There is a
rumour that you are ill."

Mr. Foley rose to his feet reluctantly.

"I will come," he promised.

She closed the door and departed silently. At no time had she glanced
towards or taken any notice of Maraton.

"We discuss the fate of an empire," Mr. Foley sighed, "and necessity
demands that I must return to my guests! This conversation between us
must be finished. You are a reasonable man; you cannot deny the right
of an enemy to demand your terms before you declare war?"

Maraton, too, had risen to his feet. He had turned slightly and his
eyes were fixed upon the door through which Elisabeth had passed. For a
moment or two he seemed deep in thought. The immobility of his features
was at last disturbed. His eyes were wonderfully bright, his lips were
a little parted.

"On Saturday," Mr. Foley continued, "we leave for our country home.
For two days we shall be alone. It is not far away--an hour by rail.
Will you come, Mr. Maraton?"

Maraton withdrew his eyes from the door. "It seems a little useless,"
he said quietly. "Will you give me until to-morrow to think it over?"

CHAPTER IV

Maraton made his way from Downing Street on foot, curiously enough
altogether escaping recognition from the crowds who were still hanging
about on the chance of catching a glimpse of him. He was somehow
conscious, as he turned northwards, of a peculiar sense of exhilaration,
a savour in life unexpected, not altogether analysable. As a rule, the
streets themselves supplied him with illimitable food for thought; the
passing multitudes, the ceaseless flow of the human