“My friend,” he said, “it seems strange to me that we speak of these things at such an hour.  Yet let me tell you something.  I don’t know why I want to tell you, but I do.  I am not, perhaps, quite what you think me.  Only, the night you and I went north together, the gates of that world which you speak of so easily were closed behind me.”

“It was the other woman,” Selingman exclaimed.

“It was the other woman,” Maraton echoed.

Selingman set down the bottle upon the table.  Two great tears rolled down from his blue eyes.  He held out both his hands and gripped Maraton’s.

“My friend,” he said, “now indeed I love you!  We are twin souls.  You, too, are human as you are wonderful.  You see what an old woman I am.  This sentiment—­oh, it will be the end of me!  But tell me—­I must know.  It was because you went north that it was ended?”

Maraton nodded slowly.

“I chose the opposite camp,” he answered.  “What could I do?”

“Nature,” Selingman declared, brandishing a great silk handkerchief, “is the queerest mistress who ever played pranks with us.  Here, in the same camp, dwells a divinity, and you—­you must peer down into the lower world. . . .  Never mind, potted meat and hock are good.  Julia,” he added, turning his head at the sound of the opening door, “to genius in adversity all gentle familiarities are permitted.  I grant myself the privilege of your Christian name.  Come and grace our feast.  I have found food and wine.  I am your self-appointed caterer.  There is no butter, but that is simply one of those pleasant tests for us, a test of will and fortitude.  All my life until to-night I have loved butter.  From henceforth—­until we can get it again—­I detest it.  Let us eat, drink and be merry.  Where is Aaron?”

“He went out into the streets,” Julia replied.  “He will be back presently.”

Aaron came in a few minutes later, struggling with the weight of the parcels he was carrying.  He laid them down upon the sideboard, and turned towards Maraton with an air of triumph.

“I’ve been there, sir,” he announced.  “I’ve got the letters, your private dispatch box, and a lot of papers we needed.  It’s only the outside walls of the house that are charred.  The fire was put out almost at once.  And I’ve seen Ernshaw.”

Maraton’s eyes were lit with pleasure.

“You’re a fine fellow, Aaron,” he commended.

“I’ve got my bicycle, too,” Aaron continued.  “I can get half over London, if necessary, while you stay here.”

“Tell me about Ernshaw?” Maraton begged quickly.

“He’s loyal—­they all are,” Aaron cried.  “Oh, you should hear him talk about Peter Dale and Graveling, and that lot!  They’re spread up north now, all of them, trying to kill the strike.  And the men won’t move anywhere.  His own miners wouldn’t listen to Dale.  Mr. Foley sent him up to Newcastle in his motor-car.  They played a garden hose on him