Maraton smiled.

“Miss Thurnbrein.”

“What, the tailoress?” Preston replied.  “She’s a good sort.  Wrote rare stuff, she did, about her trade.  They are out together, seeing the sights.  Didn’t expect you quite so soon, I expect.”

Maraton looked around the little sitting-room.  It was furnished with a carpet of bright green thrown over a foundation of linoleum, a suite of stamped magenta plush, an overmantel, gilt cornices over the windows, a piano, a table covered with a gaudy tablecloth.  On the walls were hung some oleographs.  The lighting of the room was of gas with incandescent mantles.  There had been, apparently, judging by an odour which still remained, a great deal of beer consumed in the apartment at one time or another.

“Nice room, this,” Mr. Henneford remarked approvingly.  “Slap up, ain’t it?  Your bedroom’s next door, and your secretary’s just round the corner.  Done you proud, I reckon.  Like a royal suite, eh?”

He laughed good-humouredly.  Mr. Preston removed his pipe and rang the bell.

“One drink, I think,” he suggested, “and we’ll leave Mr. Maraton alone for a bit.  You and I’ll go down to the station and meet the chaps from London, and we’ll have a meeting up here—­say at five o’clock.  That suit you, Mr. Maraton?”

“Excellently,” Maraton assented.  “What shall I order?” he asked, as the waiter entered.

Beer, whiskey and cigars were brought.  Maraton asked a few eager questions about the condition of one of the industries, and followed Henneford to the door, talking rapidly.

“I know so little about the state of woman labour over here,” he said.  “In America they are better paid in proportion.  Perhaps, if Miss Thurnbrein is here, she will be able to give me some information.”

“You’ll soon get posted up,” Mr. Henneford declared.  “I can see you’ve got a quick way of dealing with things.  So long till five o’clock, then.  There’s a dozen chaps waiting down-stairs to see you.  We’ll leave it to your judgment just what you want to say to the Press.  Ring the bell and have the waiter bring their cards up.”

They departed and Maraton returned to his sitting-room.  He stood for a moment looking out over the city, the roar of which came to him clearly enough through the open window.  He forgot the depressing tawdriness of his surroundings in the exhilaration of the sound.  He was back again amongst the people, back again where the wheels of life were crashing.  The people!  He drew himself up and his eyes sought the furthest limits of that dim yellow haze.  Somehow, notwithstanding a vague uneasiness which hung about him like an effort of wounded conscience, he had a still greater buoyancy of thought when he considered his possibly altered attitude towards the multitude who waited for his message.  He felt his feet upon the earth with more certainty, with more implicit realism, than in those days when he had spoken to them of the future and had perhaps forgotten to tell them how far away that future must be.  There was something more practical about his present attitude.  What would they say here in Manchester, expecting fire and thunder from his lips and finding him hold out the olive branch?  He shrugged his shoulders;—­a useless speculation, after all.  He rang the bell and glanced through the cards which the waiter brought him.