lined by policemen, standing like sentries about half-a-dozen yards
apart. The tented entrance to the house was guarded by a solid phalanx
of men in uniform. A mounted inspector was riding slowly up and down in
the middle of the road. At the entrance to the street, barely fifty
yards away, a moving mass of people, white-faced, almost spectral, were
passing slowly beneath the pale gas-lamps.

"The people!" Maraton murmured, with a curious note in his tone, half of
reverence, half of pity.

"The mob!" Mr. Foley echoed bitterly. "They brawl before the houses of
those who do their best to serve them. They bark always at our heels.
Perhaps to-night it is you whom they have come to honour. Your
bodyguard, eh, Mr. Maraton?"

"If they have discovered that I am here, it is not unlikely," Maraton
admitted calmly.

Mr. Foley dropped the curtain which he had taken from his companion's
fingers. Moving back into the room, he turned on more light. Then he
resumed his seat.

"Mr. Maraton," he began, "we met only once before, I think. That was
four years ago this summer. Answer me honestly--do you see any change
in me?"

Maraton leaned a little forward. His face showed some concern, as he
answered:

"You are not in the best of health just now, I fear, Mr. Foley."