“There is one gentleman whom you must see,” Aaron declared.  “I didn’t put him in the waiting-room—­a Mr. Beldeman.  He came to see you in Manchester.”

“Beldeman!”

Maraton repeated the name.  Then he smiled.

“A very sensational gentleman,” he observed.  “Came to offer me—­but never mind, I told you about that.  Yes, you’re right, Aaron.  He is always interesting.  Take your sister away for a few minutes.  You can be getting ready.  When I’ve finished with Mr. Beldeman, we’ll start out.  I shan’t change a thing.”

Mr. Beldeman entered the room, carrying his hat in his hand, unruffled by his long wait, to all appearance wearing the same clothes, the same smile, as on his visit to the hotel in Manchester.  Maraton greeted him good-humouredly.

“Well, Mr. Beldeman,” he began, “you see, I have made things all right for your syndicate of manufacturers, although I couldn’t accept your offer.  Sit down.  You won’t keep me long, will you?  I have to go out.  Perhaps you are going to give me a little for my Lancashire operatives.  They can do with it.  Strike pay over here is none too liberal, you know.”

Mr. Beldeman laid down his hat.  He blinked for a moment behind his gold spectacles.

“The Lancashire strike,” he said softly, “is of very little service to my principals.  As you know, it is more than that for which we were hoping.”

Maraton nodded but made no remark.

“My principals,” Mr. Beldeman continued, “have watched your career, Mr. Maraton, for some time.  They have studied eagerly your speeches and your writings, and when you arrived on this side they expected something more from you.  They expected, in fact, the enunciation of a certain doctrine which you have already propounded with singular eloquence in other parts of the world.  They expected to find it the text of your first words to Labour in this country.  I refer, of course, to the universal strike.”

“It was my great theory,” Maraton admitted, suddenly grave.  “I will not say even now that I have abandoned it.  It is in abeyance.”

“My principals,” Mr. Beldeman remarked slowly, “would like it to take place.”

Maraton smiled.

“Your principals, I presume,” he said, “do not imagine that I am on the earth to gratify them, even though they did offer me—­let me see, how much was it—­a million pounds?”

“This time,” Mr. Beldeman went on, “it is not a question of money.”

“Not a question of money,” Maraton repeated.  “You don’t want to buy me?  What do you want to do, then?”

“We threaten,” Mr. Beldeman pronounced calmly.

Maraton for a moment seemed puzzled.

“Threaten,” he murmured thoughtfully.  “Come, do I understand you properly?  Is it assassination, or anything of that sort, you’re talking about?” Beldeman shook his head.

“Those are methods for extreme cases,” he said.  “Yours is not an extreme case.  We do not threaten you, Mr. Maraton, with death, but we do threaten you with the death of your reputation, the end of your career as a political power in this country, if you do not see your way clear to act as we desire.”