“Let me tell you ...  I went there—­out of curiosity, I guess.  This whole strike came so suddenly.  I don’t understand why strikes and troubles like this must be, and I thought I might find out something if I went and watched ...  I wasn’t taking sides.  I don’t know who is right and who is wrong.  All I wanted was to learn.  One thing ...  I don’t blame the strikers for throwing bricks.  I could have thrown a brick at one of our guards; a policeman shoved me and I could have thrown a brick at him. ...  I suppose, if there are to be strikes and mobs who want to destroy our property, that we must have guards and police ...  But they shouldn’t aggravate things.  I went around where I could see—­and I saw the police charge.  I saw them send their horses smashing into that crowd—­and I saw them draw back, leaving men on the pavement, ...  There was one who writhed about and made horrible sounds! ...  The mob was against us and the police were for us—­but I couldn’t stand it.  I guess I lost my head.  I hadn’t the least intention of doing what I did, or of doing anything but watch ... but I lost my head.  I did rush up to the police, Miss Frazer, and the strikers tried to mob me.  I was struck more than once ...  It wasn’t to tell the police to charge.  You must believe me—­you must. ...  I was afraid they would charge again, so I rushed at them.  All I remember distinctly is shouting to them that they mustn’t do it again—­mustn’t charge into that defenseless mob. ...  It was horrible.”  He paused, and shut his eyes as though to blot out a picture painted on his mind.  Then he spoke more calmly.  “The police didn’t understand, either.  They thought I belonged to the mob, and they arrested me. ...  I slept—­I spent the night in a cell in Police Headquarters.”

Ruth was leaning over the desk toward him, eyes wide, lips parted.  “Is—­is that the truth?” she asked; but as she asked she knew it was so.  Then:  “I’m sorry—­so sorry.  You must let me tell Mr. Dulac and he will tell the men.  It would be terrible if they kept on believing what they believe now.  They think you are—­”

“I know,” he said, wearily.  “It can’t be helped.  I don’t know that it matters.  What they think about me is what—­it is thought best for them to think.  I am supposed to be fighting the strike.”

“But aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.  It’s the job that’s been assigned to me—­but I’m doing nothing.  I’m of no consequence—­just a stuffed figure.”

“You caused the strike.”

“I?” There was genuine surprise in his voice.  “How?”

“With that placard.”

“I suppose so,” he said, slowly.  “My name was signed to it, wasn’t it? ...  You see I had been indiscreet the night before.  I had mingled with the men and spoken to Mr. Dulac. ...  I had created a false impression—­which had to be torn up—­by the roots.”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Foote.”