to be free from all ornaments, free from even the shadow of luxury.  Her throat was bare, her hair simply arranged, her fingers and wrists innocent of even the simplest article of jewellery.  He, on the other hand, the Elijah of her dreams, appeared in the guise of a man of fashion, wearing, as though he were used to them, the attire of the hated class, obviously qualified by breeding and use to hold his place amongst them.  Was this indeed to be the disappointment of her life?  Then she remembered and her courage rose.  After all, he was the Master.

“I will go now,” she said.  “I am glad to have been the first to have welcomed you.”

He held out his hands.  Then for a moment they both listened and turned towards the door.  There was the sound of an angry voice—­a visitor, apparently trying to force his way in.  Maraton strode towards the door and opened it.  A young man was in the hall, expostulating angrily with a resolute man servant.  His hat had rolled on to the floor, his face was flushed with anger.  The servant, on recognising his master, stepped back at once.

“The gentleman insisted upon forcing his way in, sir,” he explained softly.  “I wished him to wait while I brought you his name.”

Maraton smiled and made a little gesture of dismissal.  The young man picked up his hat.  He was still hot with anger.  Maraton pointed to the room on the threshold of which the girl was still standing.

“If you wish to speak to me,” he said, “I am quite at your service.  Only it is a little late for a visit, isn’t it?  And yours seems to be a rather unceremonious way, of insisting upon it.  Who are you?”

The young man stood and stared at his questioner.  He was wearing a blue serge suit, obviously ready-made, thick boots, a doubtful collar, a machine-knitted silk tie of vivid colour.  He had curly fair hair, a sharp face with narrow eyes, thick lips and an indifferent complexion.

“Are you Maraton?” he demanded.

“I am,” Maraton admitted.  “And you?”

“I am Richard Graveling, M.P.,” the young man announced, with a certain emphasis on those last two letters,—­“M.P. for Poplar East.  We expected you at the Clarion to-night.”

“I had other business,” Maraton remarked calmly.

The young man appeared a trifle disconcerted.

“I don’t see what business you can have here till we’ve talked things out and laid our plans,” he declared.  “I am secretary of the committee appointed to meet and confer with you.  Peter Dale is chairman, of course.  There are five of us.  We expected you ’round to-night.  You got our telegram at Liverpool?”

“Certainly,” Maraton admitted.  “It did not, however, suit my plans to accept your invitation.  I had a message from Mr. Foley, begging me to see him to-night.  I have been to his house.”

The young man distinctly scowled.

“So Foley’s been getting at you, has he?”