of his craft. We are dooming the people of this country to generations
of slavery!"

Maraton for a moment sat quite still. When he spoke, his tone was
singularly matter-of-fact.

"Where is Maxendorf?" he asked.

"Still at the hotel. The Embassy was not ready, and he has made
excuses. He is more his own master there."

Maraton turned to Ernshaw.

"Ernshaw," he begged, "wait here for me. Wait."

He took up his hat and left the room. Selingman stood almost as though
he were praying.

"Now," he muttered, "is the time for the strong man!"

CHAPTER XXXVII

Into the salon of Maxendorf's suite at the Ritz Hotel, freed for a
moment from its constant stream of callers, came suddenly, without
announcement--from a place of hiding, indeed--Maraton. He stepped into
the room swiftly and closed the door. Maxendorf was standing with his
back to his visitor, bending over a map.

"Who's that?" he asked, without looking up "You, Franz? You, Beldeman?"

There was no reply. Maxendorf straightened his gaunt figure and turned
around. He stood there motionless, the palm of one hand covering the
map at which he had been gazing, the lamplight shining on his gaunt,
strangely freckled face.

"You!" he muttered.

Maraton remained still speechless. Maxendorf stretched out his hand for
the telephone, but before he could grasp it, his hand was struck into
the air. He wasted no time asking useless questions. His visitor's
face was enough.

"What have you to gain by this?" he demanded. "Even if you could take
my life, it will alter nothing."

Maraton caught him fiercely by the throat. Maxendorf, notwithstanding
his superior height, was powerless. He was forced slowly backwards
across the couch, on to the floor. Maraton knelt by his side. His
grasp was never for a second relaxed.

"I leave you to-night," Maraton whispered, "with a gasp or two of life
in you, but remember this. If I fail to undo your work, as sure as I
live, I will keep my word. My hand shall find your throat again--your
throat, do you hear?--and shall hold you there, tighter and tighter,
until the life slips out of your body, just as it is almost slipping
now!"

Maxendorf was unconscious. Maraton suddenly threw him away. Then he
left the room, rang for the lift and made his way once more out into the
street. Piccadilly was a shadowy wilderness. St. James's Street was
thronged with soldiers marching into the Park. Maraton pursued his way
steadily into Pall Mall