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Updated: May 27, 2025
I am here on behalf of a syndicate of manufacturers foreign manufacturers to offer you a bribe." Maraton stood quite still upon the hearth-rug. His face showed no emotion whatever. "You are, I believe," Mr. Beldeman went on, "only half an Englishman. That is why I am hoping that you will behave like a reasonable being, and that my person may be saved from violence.
"Your principals, I presume," he said, "do not imagine that I am on the earth to gratify them, even though they did offer me let me see, how much was it a million pounds?" "This time," Mr. Beldeman went on, "it is not a question of money." "Not a question of money," Maraton repeated. "You don't want to buy me? What do you want to do, then?" "We threaten," Mr. Beldeman pronounced calmly.
Maraton Lawes' career will shortly appear in an evening paper." Maraton listened without change of countenance. All eyes were turned upon him. "Well?" he enquired nonchalantly. "Is this true?" Peter Dale demanded. Maraton inclined his head. "The writer," he said, "a man named Beldeman, I am sure has been singularly moderate in his statements.
"I will do my best," Maraton promised him, "to restrain myself. You have at least succeeded in exciting my curiosity." "I am, to look at," Mr. Beldeman continued, "an unimportant person. As a matter of fact, I represent a very great country, and I come to you charged with a great mission." Maraton became a little graver. "Go on," he said. "I am anxious perhaps over-anxious," Mr.
Beldeman," he said, "who threatened me." "You will not kill me," Mr. Beldeman declared, with gentle confidence in his tone. "If I had known," Maraton continued softly, "I'd have wrung your neck at Manchester." "Quite easy, I should say," Mr. Beldeman agreed. "You look strong. Without a doubt I could make you desperate. Better be reasonable.
Into the salon of Maxendorf's suite at the Ritz Hotel, freed for a moment from its constant stream of callers, came suddenly, without announcement from a place of hiding, indeed Maraton. He stepped into the room swiftly and closed the door. Maxendorf was standing with his back to his visitor, bending over a map. "Who's that?" he asked, without looking up "You, Franz? You, Beldeman?"
He had a strong, intellectual forehead, a well-shaped mouth. His voice, when he spoke, was pleasant, although his accent was peculiar almost foreign. "Mr. Maraton," his visitor began, "I thank you very much for your courtesy, but I have nothing to do with the Press. My name is Beldeman. I have come to Manchester especially to see you." Maraton nodded. "We are strangers, I believe?" he asked.
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