“I will see you to the station.” “No; you must not come near me. I hope never to see you again.” “I will see you to the station,” repeated Marsten, doggedly. The girl said nothing more, but walked hurriedly down the narrow passage, the young man following her. She sprang into the waiting hansom, crying, “Waterloo; quick!” The cab whirled away, leaving Marsten standing bareheaded on the kerb. He remained there for some moments, gazing in the direction the cab had taken, then turned with a sigh and walked slowly up the passage to his room. It seemed more bare and empty than ever it had been before, and he could hardly realize that, a few short moments since, she had stood within it. He heard, without heeding, the noise from the hall, like the low growl of some wild beast. He looked at the papers on the table, wrinkling his brow trying to understand what they were all about. It appeared ages since he sat there writing--now he heard nothing but the words “Answer me!” ringing in his ears. He was startled by another knock at the door and sprang towards it, throwing it eagerly open, hoping she had returned. Monkton & Hope’s tall, grizzled commissionaire, in his uniform, with the medal dangling from his breast, stood there, perhaps astonished at the sudden opening of the door, but not a muscle of his face showing his surprise. He saluted gravely. “A letter from the firm, sir.” “Ah! Step inside. Any answer required?” “I don’t know, sir,” answered the commissionaire, standing as straight and as rigid as if on parade. Marsten tore open the envelope, and the reading of the letter brought him to his senses. It was a terse communication, and informed him that Monkton & Hope agreed to the terms of the men. Mr. Sartwell would wait at his office until ten o’clock to meet M Marsten and arrange for the opening of the works in the morning. Marsten dashed off an official reply, and said he would wait on Mr. Sartwell in half an hour’s time. Giving this note to the commissionaire, who again saluted and withdrew, Marsten, with the letter in his hand, opened the door that communicated with the platform and stepped out in the sight of the meeting. A howl of derision greeted his appearance, and the howl of an angry mob is a sound that, once heard, a man never wishes to hear again. “There he is,” shouted Gibbons, whose speech Marsten’s entrance had evidently interrupted. “There he is, and let him deny it if he can!” “Deny what?” cried Marsten. “Deny that you have been in communication with the enemy! Deny that Sartwell’s daughter has only this moment left you!” “That has nothing to do with you, nor with this strike. England is a free country; a man may talk with whom he pleases.” “He can’t deny it!” shouted Gibbons, at the top of his voice. “There were too many witnesses this time. She didn’t know that a meeting was gathering. Where now is the man at the back of the hall who cried out it was a lie? I told you I would prove it by Marsten himself.”