Mr. Foley regarded his visitor with quiet dignity.

"I have understood that you were an Englishman, Mr. Maraton," he said.
"Am I to look upon you as a traitor?"

"Not to the cause which is my one religion," Maraton retorted swiftly.
"Empires may come and go, but the people remain. What changes may
happen to this country before the great and final one, is a matter in
which I am not deeply concerned."

The telephone bell upon the table between them rang. Mr. Foley frowned
slightly, as he raised the receiver to his ear.

"You will forgive me?" he begged. "This is doubtless a matter of some
importance. It is not often that my secretary allows me to be disturbed
at this hour."

Maraton wandered back to the window, raised the curtain and once more
looked out upon the scene which seemed to him that night so pregnant
with meaning. His mind remained fixed upon the symbolism of the
streets. He heard only the echoes of a somewhat prolonged exchange of
questions and answers. Finally, Mr. Foley replaced the receiver and
announced the conclusion of the conversation. When Maraton turned
round, it seemed to him that his host's face was grey.

"You come like the stormy petrel," the latter remarked bitterly. "There
is bad news to-night from the north. We are threatened with militant
labour troubles all over the country."