He was smiling, Mr. Cameron knew, and his anger rose afresh.

“Very touching,” said Mr. Cameron, “but if he bothers me going out you may be short one friend.  Mr. Doyle, Miss Lily Cardew left her home to-night.  I want to know if she is here.”

“Are you sent by her family?”

“I have asked you if she is here.”

Jim Doyle apparently deliberated.

“My niece is here, although just why you should interest yourself—­”

“May I see her?”

“I regret to say she has retired.”

“I think she would see me.”

A door opened into the hall, throwing a shaft of light on the wall across and letting out the sounds of voices.

“Shut that door,” said Doyle, wheeling sharply.  It was closed at once.  “Now,” he said, turning to his visitor, “I’ll tell you this.  My niece is here.”  He emphasized the “my.”  “She has come to me for refuge, and I intend to give it to her.  You won’t see her to-night, and if you come from her people you can tell them she came here of her own free will, and that if she stays it will be because she wants to.  Joe!” he called into the darkness.

“Yes,” came a sullen voice, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Show this gentleman out.”

All at once Willy Cameron was staring at a closed door, on the inner side of which a bolt was being slipped.  He felt absurd and futile, and not at all like a lion.  With the revolver in his hand, he went down the steps.

“Don’t bother about the gate, Joe,” he said.  “I like to open my own gates.  And—­don’t try any tricks, Joe.  Get back to your kennel.”

Fearful mutterings followed that, but the shadow retired, and he made an undisturbed exit to the street.  Once on the street-car, the entire episode became unreal and theatrical, with only the drag of Joe’s revolver in his coat pocket to prove its reality.

It was after midnight when, shoes in hand, he crept up the stairs to Dan’s room, and careful not to disturb him, slipped into his side of the double bed.  He did not sleep at all.  He lay there, facing the fact that Lily had delivered herself voluntarily into the hands of the enemy of her house, and not only of her house, an enemy of the country.  That conference that night was a sinister one.  Brought to book about it, Doyle might claim it as a labor meeting.  Organizers planning a strike might—­did indeed—­hold secret conferences, but they did not post armed guards.  They opened business offices, and brought in the press men, and shouted their grievances for the world to hear.

This was different.  This was anarchy.  And in every city it was going on, this rallying of the malcontents, the idlers, the envious and the dangerous, to the red flag.  Organized labor gathered together the workmen, but men like Doyle were organizing the riff-raff of the country.  They secured a small percentage of idealists and pseudo-intellectuals, and taught them a so-called internationalism which under the name of brotherhood was nothing but a raid on private property, a scheme of pillage and arson.  They allied with themselves imported laborers from Europe, men with everything to gain and nothing to lose, and by magnifying real grievances and inflaming them with imaginary ones, were building out of this material the rank and file of an anarchist army.