“Not to the cause which is my one religion,” Maraton retorted swiftly.  “Empires may come and go, but the people remain.  What changes may happen to this country before the great and final one, is a matter in which I am not deeply concerned.”

The telephone bell upon the table between them rang.  Mr. Foley frowned slightly, as he raised the receiver to his ear.

“You will forgive me?” he begged.  “This is doubtless a matter of some importance.  It is not often that my secretary allows me to be disturbed at this hour.”

Maraton wandered back to the window, raised the curtain and once more looked out upon the scene which seemed to him that night so pregnant with meaning.  His mind remained fixed upon the symbolism of the streets.  He heard only the echoes of a somewhat prolonged exchange of questions and answers.  Finally, Mr. Foley replaced the receiver and announced the conclusion of the conversation.  When Maraton turned round, it seemed to him that his host’s face was grey.

“You come like the stormy petrel,” the latter remarked bitterly.  “There is bad news to-night from the north.  We are threatened with militant labour troubles all over the country.”

“It is the inevitable,” Maraton declared.

Mr. Foley struck the table with his fist.

“I deny it!” he cried.  “These troubles can and shall be stopped.  Legislation shall do it—­amicable, if possible; brutal, if not.  But the man who is content to see his country ruined, see it presented, a helpless prey, to our enemies for the mere trouble of landing upon our shores,—­that man is a traitor and 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?”