ding to address the meeting at
Manchester on Monday night, we demand an explanation with you before you
go on to the platform. We understand that the residence of Mr. Foley
is only sixty miles from London. If you are still desirous of acting
with us, we beg you, upon receipt of this letter, to ask for a motor car
and to return here to London. We shall all be at number 17, Notting
Hill, until midnight or later, telephone number 178, so that you can
telephone that you are on the way. Failing your coming, some of us will
be at the Midland Hotel, Manchester, from mid-day on Monday.

"I am,

"Faithfully yours,

"RICHARD GRAVELING,

"Secretary.

"For

PETER DALE, Chairman,

ABRAHAM WEAVEL,

SAMUEL BORDEN,

HENRY CULVAIN.

The second one was from Manchester:

"Dear Sir:

"We understand that you will be arriving in Manchester about mid-day on
Monday. We think it would be best if you were to descend from the train
either at Derby or any adjacent station, as no police force which could
possibly be raised in the county, will be sufficient to control the
crowds of people who will gather in the streets to welcome you.

"We beg that you will send us a telegram, informing us by what, train
you are travelling, and we will send a messenger to Derby, who will
confer with you as to the best means of reaching the rooms which we are
providing for you.

"Anticipating your visit,

"I am,

"Faithfully yours,

"WILLIAM PRESTON,

"Secretary Manchester Labour Party."

Maraton replaced the letters in their envelopes and turned with them in
his hand, towards Julia. She had moved a little towards the open French
windows. Every one seemed to have made their way out on to the lawn.
Chinese lanterns were hanging from some of the trees and along the
straight box hedge that led to the rose gardens. The women were
strolling about in their evening gowns, without wraps or covering, and
the men had joined them. Servants were passing coffee around, served
from a table on which stood a little row of bottles, filled with various
liqueurs. Some one in the drawing-room was singing, but the voice was
suddenly silenced. Every one turned their heads. A little further back
in the woods, a nightingale had commenced to sing.

"You are tired," Maraton whispered.

She shook her head. The strained, anxious look was still in her face.

"No," she replied in a low tone, "I am not tired."

"There is something the matter," he insisted, "