She hated herself for it.  Every fine fiber of her revolted.  But as time went on, and she learned the full wickedness of the thing, her days became one long waiting.  She saw one move after another succeed, strike after strike slowing production, and thus increasing the cost of living.  She saw the growing discontent and muttering, the vicious circle of labor striking for more money, and by its own ceasing of activity making the very increases they asked inadequate.  And behind it all she saw the ceaseless working, the endless sowing, of a grim-faced band of conspirators.

She was obliged to wait.  A few men talking in secret meetings, a hidden propaganda of crime and disorder—­there was nothing to strike at.  And Elinor, while not clever, had the Cardew shrewdness.  She saw that, like the crisis in a fever, the thing would have to come, be met, and defeated.

She had no hope that the government would take hold.  Government was aloof, haughty, and secure in its own strength.  Just now, too, it was objective, not subjective.  It was like a horse set to win a race, and unconscious of the fly on its withers.  But the fly was a gadfly.

Elinor knew Doyle was beginning to suspect her.  Sometimes she thought he would kill her, if he discovered what she meant to do.  She did not greatly care.  She waited for some inkling of the day set for the uprising in the city, and saved out of her small house allowance by innumerable economies and subterfuges.  When she found out the time she would go to the Governor of the State.  He seemed to be a strong man, and she would present him facts.  Facts and names.  Then he must act—­and quickly.

Cut off from her own world, and with no roots thrown out in the new, she had no friends, no one to confide in or of whom to ask assistance.  And she was afraid to go to Howard.  He would precipitate things.  The leaders would escape, and a new group would take their places.  Such a group, she knew, stood ready for that very emergency.

On the afternoon of Lily’s departure she heard Doyle come in.  He had not recovered from his morning’s anger, and she heard his voice, raised in some violent reproof to Jennie.  He came up the stairs, his head sagged forward, his every step deliberate, heavy, ominous.  He had an evening paper in his hand, and he gave it to her with his finger pointing to a paragraph.

“You might show that to the last of the Cardews,” he sneered.

It was the paragraph about Louis Akers.  Elinor read it.  “Who were the masked men?” she asked.  “Do you know?”

“I wish to God I did.  I’d—­Makes him a laughing stock, of course.  And just now, when—­Where’s Lily?”

Elinor put down the paper.

“She is not here.  She went home this afternoon.”

He stared at her, angrily incredulous.

“Home?”

“This afternoon.”

She passed him and went out into the hall.  But he followed her and caught her by the arm as she reached the top of the staircase.