He beckoned to the chef d’orchestre, engaged him for a few moments in conversation, poured him out a glass of wine, and slipped something into his hand.  Then he recommenced his dinner with a chuckle of satisfaction.

“The little man can play,” he declared.  “He has it in his fingers.  We shall hear now the waltzes that I love.  Ah, Miss Julia, why is this not Paris!  Why can I not get up and put my arm around your waist and whisper in your ear as we float round and round in a waltz?  Stupid questions!  I am too short to dance with you, for one thing, and much too fat, But one loves to imagine.  Listen.”

Maraton had already set down his knife and fork.  The strains of the waltz had come to him with a queer note of familiarity, a familiarity which at first he found elusive.  Then, as the movement progressed, he remembered.  Once more he was sitting in that distant corner of the winter garden, hearing every now and then the faint sound of the orchestra from the ballroom.  It was the same waltz; alas, the same music was warming his blood!  And it was too late now.  He had passed into the other world.  In his pocket lay the letter which he had received that evening from Mr. Foley—­a few dignified lines of bitter disappointment.  He was an outcast, one who might even soon be regarded as the wrecker of his own country.  And still the music grew and faded and grew again.

It was late before they had finished dinner, and Maraton took Selingman to one side.

“Remember,” he insisted, “it is a bargain.  Before I go north I must see Maxendorf.”

Selingman nodded.

“It is arranged,” he said.  “We both agreed that it was better for you not to go to the hotel.  Wait.”

He glanced at his watch and nodded.

“Stay with your brother, little one,” he directed, turning to Julia.  “We shall be away only a few moments.  Come.”

“Where are we going?” Maraton enquired, as they passed through the restaurant and ascended the stairs.

Selingman placed his finger by the side of his nose.

“A plan of mine,” he whispered.  “Maxendorf is here, in a private room.”

Selingman hurried his companion into a small private dining-room.  Maxendorf was sitting there alone, smoking a cigarette over the remnants of an unpretentious feast.  He welcomed them without a smile; his aspect, indeed, as he waved his hand towards a chair, was almost forbidding.

“What do you want with me, Maraton?” he asked.  “They tell me—­Selingman tells me—­there was a word you had to say before you press the levers.  Say it, then, and remember that hereafter, the less communication between you and me the better.”

Maraton ignored the chair.  He stood a little way inside the room.  Through the partially opened window came the ceaseless roar of traffic from the busy street below.

“Maxendorf,” he began, “there isn’t much to be said.  You know—­Selingman has told you—­what my decision is.  It took me some time to make up my mind—­only because I doubted one thing, and one thing alone, in the world.  That one thing, Maxendorf, was your good faith.”