“Oh yes, I do; I am conceding more than you think. I said in my wrath, when the men went out, that I would never again allow a Union man to set foot in the works: but now that they have chosen a moderate, sensible secretary, I am willing to have them come back, allowing them still to remain in the Union. Is that nothing? I think I have been most conciliatory under the circumstances.” “The meeting is still in session, Mr. Sartwell. Would you mind coming with me and telling the men that you will guarantee every one a place, and that you will not interfere with their membership of the Union?” “I don’t mind going with you, but you can probably make more out of the concessions than I, for you are more eloquent on your feet. I will simply corroborate what you say, and tell the men the gates will be open for them to-morrow. Meanwhile, just wait for me at the gate. I have a few orders to give my commissionaire.” The uniformed man answered Sartwell’s call, and stood like a statue to receive his orders. The manager closed the door. “I am afraid there is not much sleep for you tonight, Commissionaire,” he said, in a low voice, “but we will make that up to you in some other way, and when the men come back to-morrow you may sleep the whole of the following week, if you like. As soon as Gibbons and I are away, and you have closed the office, I want you to search for Marsten. You will likely find him in his room. I don’t know where he lives, but that you will have to find out--quietly, you understand. Ask him from me to give you back the letter you brought to him this evening. If he refuses, ask him not to show it to any one until he sees me in the morning.” The commissionaire brought his heels together sharply, and presently went forth on his vain search; for Marsten, unconscious, had been taken in an ambulance to St. Martyrs’ Hospital, with the remnants of the letter firmly clutched in his clenched fist. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Again it was the last train to Wimbledon; but Sartwell, tired as he was, strode home from the station with the springy step of a young man. Edna, waiting for her father in spite of his prohibition, heard the step with a thrill of hope. When he came in, there was a smile on his face such as she had not seen for weeks. “Ah, my girl,” he cried, “you can never guess what has happened!” “Yes, I can,” she answered; “Marsten has ended the strike.” “No, the strike has ended Marsten. He has been deposed, and Gibbons has been elected in his place. Gibbons, unselfish man, at once came to me to make terms for himself. So the works will be open to-morrow; and when the next strike comes, let us hope, unlike John Gilpin, I won’t be there to see.” “And what does Mr. Marsten say to this sudden change?” “I didn’t see him. I suppose he has gone to his room to meditate on the mutability of the workingman.” “I am glad you didn’t send that letter.”