They crowded around him after that, and though Graveling stood on one side and Peter Dale still maintained his attitude of doubt, they all parted cordially enough.  They reached the back door of the hall and found the shelter of a four-wheeled cab.  Before they could start, however, they were discovered.  People came running from all directions.  Looking through the window, they could see nothing but a sea of white faces.  The crazy vehicle rocked from side to side.  The driver was lifted from his seat, the horse unharnessed.  Slowly, and surrounded by a cheering multitude, they dragged the cab through the streets.  Julia, sitting by Maraton’s side, felt herself impelled to hold on to his arm.  Her body, her every sense was thrilled with the hoarse, dramatic roll of their voices, the forest of upraised caps, the strange calm of the man, who glanced sometimes almost sadly from side to side.  She clutched at him once passionately.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” she murmured.  “All the time they call to you—­their liberator!”

He smiled, and there was a shadow still of sadness in his eyes.

“It is a moment’s frenzy,” he said.  “They have seen a gleam of the truth.  When the light goes out, the old burden will seem all the heavier.  It is so little that man can do for them.”

They had flung open the top of the cab, and Maraton’s eyes were fixed far ahead at the dull glow which hung over the city, the haze of smoke and heat, stretching like a sulphurous pall southwards.  The roar of voices was always in his ears, but for a moment his thoughts seemed to have passed away, his eyes seemed to be seeking for some message beyond the clouds.  He alone knew the full meaning of the hour which had passed.

They were sitting alone in the library, the French windows wide open, the languorous night air heavy with the perfume of roses and the sweetness of the cedars, drawn out by the long day’s sunshine.  Mr. Foley was sitting with folded arms, silent and pensive—­a man waiting.  And by his side was Elisabeth, standing for a moment with her fingers upon his shoulder.

“Is that eleven o’clock?” she asked.

“A quarter past,” he answered.  “We shall hear in a few minutes now.”

She moved restlessly away.  There was something spectral about her in her light muslin frock, as she vanished through the windows and reappeared almost immediately, threading her way amongst the flower beds.  Suddenly the telephone bell at Mr. Foley’s elbow rang.  He raised the receiver.  She came swiftly to his side.

“Manchester?” she heard him say. . . .  “Yes, this is Lyndwood Park.  It is Mr. Foley speaking.  Go on.”

There was silence then.  Elisabeth stood with parted lips and luminous eyes, her hand upon his shoulder.  She watched him,—­watched the slow movement of his head, the relaxing of his hard, thin lips, the flash in his eyes.  She knew—­from the first she knew!

“Thank you very much, and good night,” Mr. Foley said, as he replaced the receiver.