“I am his son, madam,” said Barney modestly, and with that politeness he had learned in Paris. “Won’t you come in? I’m sorry my husband is not at home. Is it on account of the strike you come? I feel very anxious. Your mother called yesterday, and we had a long conversation about it.” “Yes, the mater takes a great interest in the workingman, although I can’t say I do myself. I merely wished to have an informal chat with Mr. Sartwell on the situation, and that is why I called at the house rather than the office.” Barney stepped into the hall and kept his hat in his hand to show he had a hansom waiting. He had no intention of staying more than a moment or two. He had thought it best to have something to tell his mother about his visit to Wimbledon, for she was a relentless cross-questioner, and if he could have a conversation to report she might take the will for the deed and give him the cheque. The door of the drawing-room was thrown open and when the two entered they found Edna Sartwell sitting there in a deep chair, reading a book with such interest that she evidently had not heard a word of the colloquy at the door. She rose in some confusion, colouring deeply as she saw a stranger come in with her step-mother. The latter said nothing to the girl, but directed a glance at her that, speaking as plainly as words, told her to leave the room. Barney’s first thought on seeing Edna was that she was about to escape from the room, and that this desertion must be diplomatically prevented. Barney’s great burden in life, so he often told his friends, was that the young ladies of England were in the habit of throwing themselves at his head, which remark caused Haldiman once to say that they had a quick eye for his weakest point of defence. Now here was a “stunning” girl, to use Barney’s own phrase about her, who was actually about to walk out of the room without casting a second glance at him. A young man always likes the unusual. “Not your daughter, Mrs. Sartwell?” said Barney, in his most winning manner. “My step-daughter,” answered the lady, coldly. “Ah, I thought you could not have a grown-up daughter,” murmured Barney, delicately. He always found this particular kind of compliment very successful with ladies well past middle age, and in this case his confidence was not misplaced. “Do not let me drive you away, Miss Sartwell,” he continued. “I am Barnard Hope,” he added, seeing that Mrs. Sartwell did not intend to introduce him, “and I called to see your father and talk with him regarding the strike. So, you know, it is a matter that interests us all, and I beg of you to join in the conference.” The moment he mentioned her father and the strike, he saw he held the attention of the girl, who paused and looked at her step-mother. That perplexed lady was in a quandary. She did not wish to offend Mrs. Hope’s son, and she did not want her step-daughter to remain in the room. She hesitated, and was lost.