"More than delighted, I should imagine.... Except that it will be a little stale. Personally, I am going up to tell him to-night." He smiled slightly. "I don’t like you, Strongley; I know far too much about you. But I _did_ pass Miss Frenton a note to-day at the works warning her to get you away...." "Your solicitude for my welfare is overwhelming," sneered Strongley. "Good heavens!" laughed John Morrison. "I didn’t care a damn about you. I was afraid the men might get into trouble. Steady! Don’t get gay with me. I’m not half-witted; and I can hit back...." *III* It was in London the following spring that Marjorie Frenton next saw John Morrison. She had not been present at the interview with her father—was in ignorance that it had ever taken place until the next day. And on that next day John Morrison had disappeared, leaving no trace.... For a while she had waited, wondering whether he would write—but no word came. After all, why should he? There was nothing to write about.... It was merely curiosity on her part—nothing more, of course.... A workman in evening clothes.... Enough to make anybody curious.... And now there he was—three tables away, dining with a very pretty woman. He hadn’t seen her yet.... Probably wouldn’t remember her when he did ... After all, why should he? ... And at that moment their eyes met.... She looked away at once, and started talking to the man next to her: but even as she spoke she knew John Morrison had risen and was coming towards her. "How are you, Miss Frenton?" She looked up into his face: met the glint of a smile in the lazy blue eyes. "Quite well, thank you, Mr. Morrison," she answered, coldly. "Hullo, Joe!" A woman opposite had begun to speak, to stop with a puzzled frown at Marjorie’s words. "Morrison! Why Morrison? ... Have you been masquerading, Joe, under an assumed name?" "I did for a while, Jane," he said, calmly, "to avoid you; you know how you pursued me with eligible girls.... Battalions of ’em, Miss Frenton—ranged in rows. I had to disappear stealthily in the dead of night...." "Well, when are you going to get married?" demanded the woman, laughing. "Very soon, I hope.... I do much better than you, Jane, in these things. The girl I’ve got my eye on is a girl who summoned several hundred factory hands together; and told ’em she was sorry for a mistake she’d made. And she halted a bit, and stumbled a bit—but she got through with it.... And then the men cheered ’emselves sick...." "Good heavens! Joe ... Factory hands!" gasped the woman. "What sort of a girl is she?" "A perfect topper, Jane." Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Marjorie, whose eyes were fixed on her plate. "By the way, Miss Frenton, has your father turned his works into a company yet?" "Not yet," she answered, very low.