“Rioters,” Selingman muttered.

Julia looked around with a little shiver.  There were no trains running, and a great many of the shops were closed.  Some of the people lounging about in the streets had the air of holiday makers.  Little bands of men were marching arm in arm, shouting.  Occasionally one of them picked up a stone and threw it through a shop window.  They had not seen a policeman for miles.

“It is the beginning of the end,” Maraton said slowly.  “The only pity is that one must see it at all.”

Julia pointed down the road.

“What is that?” she asked.

A long, grey-looking line was slowly unwinding itself into the level road.  It came into sight like a serpent.  It reached as far as the eye could see.  From somewhere behind, they heard the sound of music.

“Soldiers,” Maraton replied—­“marching, too.”

They moved the car over to the other side of the road.  Presently a mounted officer galloped on ahead and rode up to them.

“Your name and address, please?”

Maraton hesitated.

“Why do you ask for it?” he demanded.

“I am sorry to inform you that your car must be surrendered at once,” was the reply.  “I hope we shall not inconvenience you very much but those are the general orders.  Every motor car is to be commandeered.  Sorry for the lady.  Give me your name and address, please, at once, the cost price of your car, and how long it has been in your possession?”

Selingman gasped.

“Is the country at war?” he asked.  “We have come from South Wales to-day.  We heard nothing en route.”

“There are no newspapers being issued,” the officer told them.  “The telegraph is abandoned to the Government, and also the telephone.  Even we have no idea what is happening.  We are trying to run a few trains through to the north but we have had a couple of hundred men killed already.  They are to start again the other side of Romford.  In the meantime, I am sorry, but I am bound to take possession of your car at once.”

“My name is Selingman.”

The officer looked at him curiously.

“Are you Henry Selingman,” he enquired—­“I mean the fellow who has been writing about Maraton?”

Selingman nodded.

“Then I am afraid I can’t say I do feel so sorry to inconvenience you,” the officer continued grimly.  “Alight at once, if you please—­all of you.”

“But how are we to get into London?” Selingman protested.

“Walk,” the officer replied promptly.  “Be thankful if you reach there at all; and keep to the main streets, especially if the lady is going with you.

“Are there no police left?” Maraton demanded.

“We drafted most of them away to the riot centres.  Then the train service ceased, too, and they haven’t been able to come back.  Now we have had an alarm from somewhere—­I don’t know where and we’ve got orders to push troops towards the east coast.  If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Selingman,” the officer concluded, “you’ll keep your name to yourself for a little time.  People who’ve been associated in any way with Maraton are not too popular just now around here.”