“He’s the worst of the lot,” Rolfe said angrily.  “If it weren’t for him, we’d have this strike won to-day.  He owns this town, he’s run it to suit himself, He stiffens up the owners and holds the other mills in line.  He’s a type, a driver, the kind of man we must get rid of.  Look at him —­he lives in luxury while his people are starving.”

“Get rid of!” repeated Janet, in an odd voice.

“Oh, I don’t mean to shoot him,” Rolfe declared.  “But he may get shot, for all I know, by some of these slaves he’s made desperate.”

“They wouldn’t dare shoot him,” Janet said.  “And whatever he is, he isn’t a coward.  He’s stronger than the others, he’s more of a man.”

Rolfe looked at her curiously.

“What do you know about him?” he asked.

“I—­I know all about him.  I was his stenographer.”

“You!  His stenographer!  Then why are you herewith us?”

“Because I hate him!” she cried vehemently.  “Because I’ve learned that it’s true—­what you say about the masters—­they only think of themselves and their kind, and not of us.  They use us.”

“He tried to use you!  You loved him!”

“How dare you say that!”

He fell back before her anger.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he exclaimed.  “I was jealous—­I’m jealous of every man you’ve known.  I want you.  I’ve never met a woman like you.”

They were the very words Ditmar had used!  She did not answer, and for a while they walked along in silence, leaving Warren Street and cutting across the city until they canoe in sight of the Common.  Rolfe drew nearer to her.

“Forgive me!” he pleaded.  “You know I would not offend you.  Come, we’ll have supper together, and I will teach you more of what you have to know.”

“Where?” she asked.

“At the Hampton—­it is a little cafe where we all go.  Perhaps you’ve been there.”

“No,” said Janet.

“It doesn’t compare with the cafes of Europe—­or of New York.  Perhaps we shall go to them sometime, together.  But it is cosy, and warm, and all the leaders will be there.  You’ll come—­yes?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said....

The Hampton was one of the city’s second-class hotels, but sufficiently pretentious to have, in its basement, a “cafe” furnished in the “mission” style of brass tacks and dull red leather.  In the warm, food-scented air fantastic wisps of smoke hung over the groups; among them Janet made out several of the itinerant leaders of Syndicalism, loose-tied, debonnair, giving a tremendous impression of freedom as they laughed and chatted with the women.  For there were women, ranging from the redoubtable Nellie Bond herself down to those who may be designated as camp-followers.  Rolfe, as he led Janet to a table in a corner of the room, greeted his associates with easy camaraderie.  From Miss Bond he received an illuminating smile.  Janet wondered at her striking