were over. Yet she watched him with lynx eyes.

The 'Irish Dairy Company' flourished. Rodman rubbed his hands with a
sinister satisfaction when he inscribed among the shareholders the name
of Richard Mutimer, who invested all the money he had collected from the
East-Enders, and three hundred pounds of his own--not five hundred,
as he had at first thought of doing. Mutimer had the consent of his
committee, whom he persuaded without much difficulty--the money was
not theirs--that by this means he would increase his capital beyond all
expectation. He told Adela what he had done.

'There's not the least risk. They've got the names of several lords! And
it isn't a mere commercial undertaking: the first object is to benefit
the Irish; so that there can be nothing against my principles in it.
They promise a dividend of thirty per cent. What a glorious day it will
be when I tell the people what I have made of their money! Now confess
that it isn't everyone could have hit on this idea.'

Of course he made no public announcement of his speculation: that would
have been to spoil the surprise. But he could not refrain from talking
a good deal about the Company to his friends. He explained with zeal
the merit of the scheme; it was dealing directly with the producers, the
poor small-farmers who could never get fair treatment. He saw a great
deal of Mr. Hilary, who was vastly interested in his East-End work. A
severe winter had begun. Threepenny bits came in now but slowly, and
Mutimer exerted himself earnestly to relieve the growing want in what
he called his 'parishes.' He began in truth to do some really good work,
moving heaven and earth to find employment for those long out of it, and
even bestowing money of his own. At night he would return to Holloway
worn out, and distress Adela with descriptions of the misery he had
witnessed.

'I'm not sorry for it,' he once exclaimed. 'I cannot be sorry. Let
things get worse and worse the mending'll be all the nearer. Why don't
they march in a body to the West End? I don't mean march in a violent
sense, though that'll have to come, I expect. But why don't they make a
huge procession and go about the streets in an orderly way--just to let
it be seen what their numbers are--just to give the West End a hint?
I'll propose that one of these days. It'll be a risky business, but we
can't think of that when thousands are half starving. I could lead them,
I feel sure I could! It wants someone wit