“Why doesn’t he say how much of that profit the government gets?” he demanded.

But the man only eyed him suspiciously.

Dan fell silent.  He knew it was wrong, but he had no gift of tongue.  It was at that meeting that for the first time he heard used the word “revolution.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

Old Anthony’s excursion to his daughter’s house had not prospered.  During the drive to Cardew Way he sat forward on the edge of the seat of his limousine, his mouth twitching with impatience and anger, his stick tightly clutched in his hand.  Almost before the machine stopped he was out on the pavement, scanning the house with hostile eyes.

The building was dark.  Paul, the chauffeur, watching curiously, for the household knew that Anthony Cardew had sworn never to darken his daughter’s door, saw his erect, militant figure enter the gate and lose itself in the shadow of the house.  There followed a short interval of nothing in particular, and then a tall man appeared in the rectangle of light which was the open door.

Jim Doyle was astounded when he saw his visitor.  Astounded and alarmed.  But he recovered himself quickly, and smiled.

“This is something I never expected to see,” he said, “Mr. Anthony Cardew on my doorstep.”

“I don’t give a damn what you expected to see,” said Mr. Anthony Cardew.  “I want to see my daughter.”

“Your daughter?  You have said for a good many years that you have no daughter.”

“Stand aside, sir.  I didn’t come here to quibble.”

“But I love to quibble,” sneered Doyle.  “However, if you insist—­ I might as well tell you, I haven’t the remotest intention of letting you in.”

“I’ll ask you a question,” said old Anthony.  “Is it true that my daughter has been hurt?”

“My wife is indisposed.  I presume we are speaking of the same person.”

“You infernal scoundrel,” shouted Anthony, and raising his cane, brought it down with a crack on Doyle’s head.  The chauffeur was half-way up the walk by that time, and broke into a run.  He saw Doyle, against the light, reel, recover and raise his fist, but he did not bring it down.

“Stop that!” yelled the chauffeur, and came on like a charging steer.  When he reached the steps old Anthony was hanging his stick over his left forearm, and Doyle was inside the door, trying to close it.  This was difficult, however, because Anthony had quietly put his foot over the sill.

“I am going to see my daughter, Paul,” said Anthony Cardew.  “Can you open the door?”

“Open it!” Paul observed truculently.  “Watch me!”

He threw himself against the door, but it gave suddenly, and sent him sprawling inside at Doyle’s feet.  He was up in an instant, squared to fight, but he only met Jim Doyle’s mocking smile.  Doyle stood, arms folded, and watched Anthony Cardew enter his house.  Whatever he feared he covered with the cynical mask that was his face.