“I know,” he said finally, “that but for the Clarion the strike would drop.  Well!  I have come to the conclusion that the responsibility is too heavy.  I shall be doing the men themselves more harm than good.  There is the case in a nutshell.  We differ—­I can’t help that.  The responsibility is mine.”

Craven rose with a quick, nervous movement.  The prophet spoke at last.

“You understand,” he said, laying a thin hand on the table, “that the condition of the workers in this trade is infamous!—­that the award and your action together plunge them back into a state of things which is a shame and a curse to England!”

Wharton made no answer.  He, too, had risen, and was putting away some papers in a drawer.  A tremor ran through Craven’s tall frame; and for an instant, as his eye rested on his companion, the idea of foul play crossed his mind.  He cast it out, that he might deal calmly with his own position.

“Of course, you perceive,” he said, as he took up his hat, “that I can no longer on these terms remain the Clarion’s correspondent.  Somebody else must be found to do this business.”

“I regret your decision, immensely,” said Wharton, with perfect suavity, “but of course I understand it.  I trust, however, that you will not leave us altogether.  I can give you plenty of work that will suit you.  Here, for instance”—­he pointed to a pile of Blue Books from the Labour Commission lying on the table—­“are a number of reports that want analysing and putting before the public.  You could do them in town at your leisure.”

Craven struggled with himself.  His first instinct was to fling the offer in Wharton’s face.  Then he thought of his wife; of the tiny new household just started with such small, happy, self-denying shifts; of the woman’s inevitable lot, of the hope of a child.

“Thank you,” he said, in a husky voice.  “I will consider, I will write.”

Wharton nodded to him pleasantly, and he went.

The owner of the Clarion drew a long breath.

“Now I think on the whole it would serve my purpose best to sit down and write to her—­after that.  It would be well that my account should come first.”

A few hours later, after an interview with his bankers and a further spell of letter-writing, Wharton descended the steps of his club in a curious restless state.  The mortgage on the Clarion had been arranged for, his gambling debts settled, and all his other money matters were successfully in train.  Nevertheless, the exhilaration of the morning had passed into misgiving and depression.

Vague presentiments hung about him all day, whether in the House of Commons or elsewhere, and it was not till he found himself on his legs at a crowded meeting at Rotherhithe, violently attacking the Government Bill and the House of Lords, that he recovered that easy confidence in the general favourableness of the universe to Harry Wharton, and Harry Wharton’s plans, which lent him so much of his power.