The courageous man led the way towards his dwelling, keeping the trees between himself and the house as much as possible and as long as he could. He shuffled hurriedly across the open space, and went gingerly up the steps at the back of the building, letting himself into a wide hall, and then noiselessly entered a square room that looked out upon the broad lawn and plantation to the rear. The room was lined with books; a solid oak table stood in the centre, flanked by comfortable armchairs. Mr. Hope rang the bell, and held the door slightly ajar. “Is there any cold meat down-stairs, Susy?” he whispered to the unseen person through the opening. “Yes, sir.” “Well, bring up enough for two; some pickles, bread and butter, and a bit of cheese.” Then turning to Marsten he asked, “Will you drink wine or beer?” “Really, Mr. Hope,” said the young man, moistening his lips and speaking with difficulty, “I’m not in the least hungry.” Which was not true, for the very recital of the articles of food made him feel so faint that he had to lean against the bookcase for support. “Bring a bottle of beer, please,” whispered the host, softly closing the door. “Sit down, sit down,” he said to Marsten. “Not hungry? Of course you’re hungry after such a walk, no matter how hearty a breakfast you took before you left.” While Marsten ate, Mr. Hope said nothing, but sat listening with apparently intense anxiety. Once he rose and cautiously turned the key in the door, breathing easier when this was done. “Now,” said the old man, when Marsten had finished his meal, “you must go by rail to Wimbledon. Time is of importance--time is of importance. Here is a little money for expenses.” “I cannot take money from you, Mr. Hope, but thank you all the same.” “Nonsense, nonsense. You are acting for me, you know.” “No, sir, I am acting for the men.” “Well, it’s the same thing. Benefit one, benefit all. Come, come, I insist. I put down my foot. Call it wages, if you like. No doubt you didn’t want to strike.” “I didn’t want to, but I struck.” “Same thing, same thing. You must take the money.” “I’d much rather not, sir.” Marsten saw the anxiety of his host, who acted as a man might over whose head some disaster impended, and it weakened his resolution not to take the money. He understood that for some reason Mr. Hope wanted him to take the money and be gone. “Tut, tut,” persisted the old man, eagerly. “We mustn’t let trifles stand in the way of success.” As he was speaking, an imperious voice sounded in the hall--the voice of a woman. A sudden pallour overspread Mr. Hope’s face, that reminded Marsten of the look it wore when the twelve policemen escorted him and his partner through the crowd. “Here, here,” said the old man, in a husky whisper, “take the money and say nothing about it--nothing about it.” Marsten took the money, and slipped it into his pocket. The voice in the hall rang out again. “Where is Mr. Hope, Susan?” it asked.