most far-seeing journalists of the day predicted in this new alliance the redistribution of Parties which for some time had been inevitable.  So far as Maraton was concerned, it was, without doubt, an unexpected phase in his career.  He was Maraton, M.P., representative of a manufacturing town; elected, indeed, as an Independent, but with a weighty backing of the Unionist Party behind him.  The next time he spoke, probably, if he did speak before his journey to Sheffield, would be in the House of Commons.  Would he, like those others, feel the inertia of it, the slow decay of his ambitions, the fatal tendency towards compromise?

Arrived at St. Pancras, Maraton drove straight to his house in Russell Square and, letting himself in with his latch-key, made his way to the study.  The lights were still burning there.  Julia and Aaron were sitting opposite to one another at the end of the long table, a typewriter between them and a pile of papers by Aaron’s side.  Julia rose at once to her feet.

“You are in!” she cried.  “We have been telephoning all the evening.  We heard half an hour ago.”

Maraton nodded.

“In by seven hundred.  Not bad, I suppose, considering that I must have been rather a hard nut to crack.  Has Peter Dale been here?”

Aaron shook his head.

“He hasn’t been near the place.”

Maraton’s face hardened.

“You know that they sprang a Labour candidate upon me at the last moment?  He did me no particular harm, but it was an infamous trick.  I wired to Dale yesterday and had no reply.”

“David Ross has been here,” Aaron said.  “We heard all about it from him.  There is dissension in the camp.  Dale was in favour of withdrawing their candidate, but Graveling wouldn’t have it.”

“He did me no harm, anyway,” Maraton remarked.  “The Labour vote was mine from the start.”

“So it ought to have been,” Aaron declared vigorously.  “What could they do but vote for you, with Manchester staring them in the face?”

Maraton’s expression lightened, a gleam of humour twinkled in his eyes.

“After all,” he murmured, “it would have been almost Gilbertian if I had been returned to Parliament with the Labour vote against me! . . .  Aaron, go and ring up Peter Dale.  I want this matter cleared up.  Ask him when we can meet.”

Aaron left the room upon his errand.  Maraton moved restlessly about the room for a moment or two.  He mixed himself a drink at the sideboard, and lit a cigarette.  Julia’s eyes followed him all the time.

“So you are a Member of Parliament,” she said at last.

“I hope you approve?” he queried.

Julia did not answer him at once.  He looked across at her from the depth of the easy chair into which he had thrown himself.  She was wearing a plain black dress, buttoned to her throat and unrelieved even by a linen collar or any touch of white.  She was pale, and her eyes seemed all the more beautiful for the faint violet lines beneath them.