They drove round to the great building which had been taken over by the different members of the Labour Council. The representative of each Trades Union had his own office, staff of clerks and private telephone. Fenn, who greeted the two men with a rather excessive cordiality, constituted himself their cicerone. He took them from room to room and waited while Julian exchanged remarks with some of the delegates whom he had not met personally. “Every one of our members,” Fenn pointed out, “is in direct communication with the local secretary of each town in which his industry is represented. You see these?” He paused and laid his hand on a little heap of telegraph forms, on which one word was typed. “These,” he continued, “are all ready to be dispatched the second that we hear from Mr. Stenson that is to say if we should hear unfavourably. They are divided into batches, and each batch will be sent from a different post-office, so that there shall be no delay. We calculate that in seven hours, at the most, the industrial pulse of the country will have ceased to beat.” “How long has your organisation taken to build up?” Julian enquired. “Exactly three months,” David Sands observed, turning around in his swing chair from the desk at which he had been writing. “The scheme was started a few days after your article in the British Review. We took your motto as our text ‘Coordination and cooperation.’” They found their way into the clubroom, and at luncheon, later on, Julian strove to improve his acquaintance with the men who were seated around him. Some of them were Members of Parliament with well-known names, others were intensely local, but all seemed earnest and clear-sighted. Phineas Cross commenced to talk about war generally. He had just returned from a visit with other Labour Members to the front, although it is doubtful whether the result had been exactly in accordance with the intentions of the powers who had invited him.