“You stirred something up in them,” Ernshaw said slowly, “something they have never felt before.  You made them feel that they have the right of nature to live a dignified life, and to enjoy a certain share of the profits of their labour, not as a grudgingly given wage but as a law-established right.  There’s a feeling born in them that’s new—­it’s done them good already.  I never heard so little grumbling at the pay.  I think it’s in their heart that they’re fighting for a principle this time, and not for an extra coin dragged from the unwilling pockets of men who have no human right to be the janitors of what their labour produces.  They’ve got the proper feeling at last, sir.  You’ve touched something which is as near the religious sense as anything a man can feel who has no call that way.  It’s something that will last, too!  Their womenkind have laid hold of it.  When they start life again, they mean to start on a different plane.”

“How are the accounts lasting out?” Maraton asked.

Ernshaw produced some books from his pocket and they sat down at the table.

“We’re not so badly off for money,” he declared.  “It’s the purchasing power of it that’s making things difficult.  I have spread the people out as much as I can.  It’s the best chance, but next week will be a black one.”

They pored over the figures for a time.  Outside, the streets were almost as silent as death.  Suddenly the door was thrown open, and they both looked up hastily.  Selingman stood there, but Selingman transformed.  All the colour seemed to have left his cheeks; his eyes were burning with a steely fire.  He closed the door behind him and he shivered where he stood.  Maraton sprang to his feet.

“What, in God’s name, has happened, man?” he cried.  “Quick!”

Selingman came a little further into the room.  He raised his hands above his head; his voice was thick with horror.

“I have betrayed you!” he moaned.  “I have betrayed the people!”

He stood there, still trembling.  Maraton poured him out wine, but he swept it away.

“No more of those things for me!” he continued.  “Listen to my tale.  If there is a God, may he hear me!  By every line I have written, by every world of fancy into which I have been led, by every particle of what nations have called my genius, I swear that I speak the truth!”

“I believe you,” Maraton said.  “Go on.  Tell me quickly.”

“I trusted Maxendorf,” Selingman proceeded, his voice shaking, “trusted and loved him as a brother.  I have been his tool and his dupe!”

Maraton felt himself suddenly at the edge of the world.  He leaned over and looked into the abyss called hell.  For a moment he shivered; then he set his teeth.

“Go on,” he repeated.