“You invited us,” Peter Dale remarked deliberately, “and here we are.  As to what good’s likely to come of our meeting, that’s another matter.  There’s no denying the fact that we’ve not been able to work together up till now, and whether we shall in the future is by no means clear.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, Mr. Dale,” Maraton declared.  “I only hope that before you go you will have changed your mind.”

“Not in the least likely, that I can see,” Peter Dale retorted.  “For my part, I can’t reckon up what you want with us.  You’ve gone into the House on your own and you’ve chosen to sit in a place by yourself.  You’ve tried your best to manage things according to your own way of thinking, without us.  Now, all of a sudden, you invite us here.  I wonder whether this has anything to do with it.”

With some deliberation, Peter Dale produced from his pocket a letter, which he smoothed out upon the table before him.  He had the air of a man who prepares a bombshell.  Maraton stretched out his hand toward it.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

Peter Dale kept his fingers upon it.

“Its contents concern you,” he announced.  “I’ll read it, if you’ll be so good as to listen.  Came as a bit of a shock to us, I must confess.”

“Anonymous?” Maraton murmured.

“If its contents are untrue,” Peter Dale said, “you will be able to contradict them.  With your kind permission, then.  Listen, everybody: 

“’Dear Sir: 

“’The following facts concerning a recent addition to the ranks of your Party should, I think, be of some interest to you.

“’The proper name of Mr. Maraton is Mr. Maraton Lawes.

“’Mr. Maraton Lawes and a younger brother were once the possessors of the world-famous Lawes Oil Springs, and are now the principal shareholders in the Lawes Oil Company.

“’The person in question is a millionaire.

“’A Socialist millionaire who conceals the fact of his wealth and keeps his purse closed, is a person, I think, open to criticism.

“‘A sketch of Mr. Maraton Lawes’ career will shortly appear in an evening paper.’”

Maraton listened without change of countenance.  All eyes were turned upon him.

“Well?” he enquired nonchalantly.

“Is this true?” Peter Dale demanded.

Maraton inclined his head.

“The writer,” he said, “a man named Beldeman, I am sure has been singularly moderate in his statements.  I have been expecting the article to appear for some time.”

They were all of them apparently afflicted with a curious combination of emotions.  They were angry, and yet—­with the exception of Graveling—­there was beneath their anger some evidence of that curious respect for wealth prevalent amongst their order.  They looked at Maraton with a new interest.

“A millionaire!” Peter Dale exclaimed impressively.  “You admit it!  You—­a Socialist—­a people’s man, as you’ve called yourself!  And never a word to one of us!  Never a copper of your money to the Party!  I repeat it—­not one copper have we seen!”