The girl ran towards the front of the house, on hearing the noisy closing of the door, and was far from being reassured when she recognized Marsten almost at the gate. That something had happened to her father instantly flashed across her mind, She fleetly overtook the young man, and his evident agitation on seeing her confirmed her fears. “Oh, Mr. Marsten,” she cried, breathlessly, “is there anything wrong? Has there been more trouble at the works?” “No; I don’t think so,” he stammered. “I feel sure something is amiss. Tell me, tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense.” “I think everything is all right.” “Why do you say you ‘think’? Aren’t you sure? You have come from the works?” “No, I haven’t. I’ve just come from Surbiton. I wanted to speak with Mr. Sartwell, but I find he’s not at home.” “Oh,” said the girl, evidently much relieved. Then she flashed a bewilderingly piercing glance at him, that vaguely recalled her father to his mind. “From Surbiton? You came from Surbiton just now?” “Yes,” he faltered. “You have been to see Mr. Hope?” Marsten was undeniably confused, and the girl saw it. A flush of anger overspread her face. “If your visit was a secret one, of course I don’t expect you to answer my question.” “It was not intended to be a secret visit, but--but Mr. Hope asked me not to mention it.” “Not to mention it to my father?” “To any one.” Edna Sartwell gazed at the unhappy young man with a look of reproach in her eyes, and also--alas!--a look of scorn. “I can see by your face,” she said, indignantly, “that you don’t want my father to know that you have been talking to Mr. Hope about the strike.” “My face does not tell you everything I think, Miss Sartwell,” replied Marsten, with a burst of courage that astonished himself. “I saw Mr. Hope about the strike, and it was his wish, not mine, that Mr. Sartwell should not know I had been there. But I am wrong in saying it was not mine. I don’t want Mr. Sartwell to know either.” “Well, I call that treachery,” cried the girl, her face ablaze. “To whom?” asked Marsten, the colour leaving his face as it mounted in hers. “To my father.” “It may be treachery, as you say, but not to Mr. Sartwell. It is treachery to Gibbons, perhaps, for he is secretary to the Union and leader of the strike, while I am a member of the Union and a striker. I cannot be treacherous to Mr. Sartwell, for we are at war with each other.” “You were not at war with him when you thought he could do you a favour,” said the girl, disdainfully. The young man looked at her in speechless amazement. “Oh, yes,” she continued, “he told me of it--that night I was last at the office. He refused you, and you were angry then. I thought at the time you were merely disappointed, and I spoke to him on your behalf; but he said I knew nothing about you, and I see I didn’t. I never thought you were a person who would plot behind your employer’s back.”