a resolute man servant. His hat had rolled on to the floor, his face
was flushed with anger. The servant, on recognising his master, stepped
back at once.

"The gentleman insisted upon forcing his way in, sir," he explained
softly. "I wished him to wait while I brought you his name."

Maraton smiled and made a little gesture of dismissal. The young man
picked up his hat. He was still hot with anger. Maraton pointed to the
room on the threshold of which the girl was still standing.

"If you wish to speak to me," he said, "I am quite at your service.
Only it is a little late for a visit, isn't it? And yours seems to be a
rather unceremonious way, of insisting upon it. Who are you?"

The young man stood and stared at his questioner. He was wearing a blue
serge suit, obviously ready-made, thick boots, a doubtful collar, a
machine-knitted silk tie of vivid colour. He had curly fair hair, a
sharp face with narrow eyes, thick lips and an indifferent complexion.

"Are you Maraton?" he demanded.

"I am," Maraton admitted. "And you?"

"I am Richard Graveling, M.P.," the young man announced, with a certain
emphasis on those last two letters,--"M.P. for Poplar East. We
expected you at the Clarion to-night."

"I had other business," Maraton remarked calmly.