“I cannot tell you.  Just an idea.  I do not wish to say too much.  I wish you only to consider what a million pounds will do to help your work people.  You, they say, are one of those who love the people as your own children.  A million pounds may enable them to hold out until they can secure practically what terms they like.  Those million pounds are yours to-day, yours for the people, if you pledge your word to a universal strike.”

“Including the railways?”

“Including the railways,” Mr. Beldeman assented.

Maraton smiled quietly.

“I do not ask you,” he said, “what country you represent.  I think that it is not necessary.  You have come to me rather as though I were a dictator.  There are others besides myself with whom influence rests.”

“It is you only who count,” Mr. Beldeman declared.  “I am thankful that at any rate you have met my offer in a reasonable spirit.  Accept it, Mr. Maraton.  What concern have you for other things save only for the welfare of the people?”

“I have considered this matter,” Maraton remarked, “many, many times.  A universal strike, absolutely universal so far as regards transport and coal, would place the country in a paralytic and helpless condition.  Still, so many people have assured us that an onslaught from any foreign country is never seriously to be considered, that I have come to believe it myself.  What is your opinion?”

Mr. Beldeman remained silent for a few moments.

“One cannot tell,” he said.  “The stock of coal available for your home fleet happens to be rather low just now.  One cannot tell what might happen.  Do you greatly care?  Wasn’t it you who, in one of your speeches, pointed out that a war in your country would be welcome?  That the class who would suffer would be the class who are your great oppressors—­the manufacturers, the middle classes—­and that with their downfall the working man would struggle upwards?  Do you believe, Mr. Maraton, that a war would hurt your own people?”

“My own ideas,” Maraton replied, “are in a state of transition.  However, your offer is declined.”

“Declined without conditions?” Mr. Beldeman enquired, taking up his hat.

“For the present it is declined without conditions.  I will be quite frank with you.  Your offer doesn’t shock me as it might do if I were a right-feeling Imperialist of the proper Jingo type.  I believe that a week ago I should have considered it very seriously indeed.  Its acceptance would have been in accordance with my beliefs.  And yet, since you have made it, you have made me wonder more than ever whether I have been right.  I find a revulsion of feeling in considering it, which I cannot understand.”

“I may approach you again,” Mr. Beldeman asked, “if circumstances should change?  Possibly you yourself may, upon reflection, appreciate my suggestion more thoroughly.”

Maraton was silent for a moment.  When he looked up he was alone.  Mr. Beldeman had not waited for his reply.