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"And d d well time, too!" the newcomer continued. "You've had all the chance in the world. How do you expect to make a living, fiddling about here all day with pencil and paper, and talking Socialist rot at night? Leave that chair alone and be off, both of you." They glanced despairingly towards Aaron Thurnbrein. He thrust his hands into his pockets and exposed them with a little helpless gesture.
Her face was perhaps too lifeless to express any emotion whatsoever, but there might have been a shade of disappointment in the swift withdrawal of her gaze. A customer would have been next door to a miracle, but hope dies hard. "You!" she muttered. "What are you bothering about?" "I want David," Aaron Thurnbrein panted. "I have news! Is he behind?" The woman moved away to let him pass.
The coins he produced were of copper. The official looked at them and around the place with a grin of Contempt. "Cut it short," he ordered. "Clear out." "There's my bicycle," Aaron Thurnbrein said slowly. They all looked at him the woman and the man with nervous anxiety, the official with a flicker of interest Aaron Thurnbrein drew a little sigh.
Somehow or other, he fancied that Elisabeth was pleased. "I didn't think that it was like you to have a woman secretary," she remarked. He smiled as he replied: "Miss Thurnbrein is a very earnest worker and a real humanitarian. She has written articles about woman labour in London." "Julia Thurnbrein!" Elisabeth exclaimed. "Yes, I have read them. If only I had known that that was she!
The office boy reappeared. "Guvnor says why aren't you at your work, Miss Thurnbrein," he remarked, as he climbed on to his stool. "You won't get through before closing time, as it is." She turned reluctantly away. There was something in her face from which even Aaron could scarcely remove his eyes. "I must go," she declared.
Beer, whiskey and cigars were brought. Maraton asked a few eager questions about the condition of one of the industries, and followed Henneford to the door, talking rapidly. "I know so little about the state of woman labour over here," he said. "In America they are better paid in proportion. Perhaps, if Miss Thurnbrein is here, she will be able to give me some information."
Across Soho, threading his way with devilish ingenuity through mazes of narrow streets, scattering with his hooter little groups of gibbering, swarthy foreigners, Aaron Thurnbrein, bent double over his ancient bicycle, sped on his way towards the Commercial Road and eastwards.
"I am fortunate in my secretary," Maraton interposed. "This is Miss Julia Thurnbrein, Selingman. I don't suppose you read our reviews, but Miss Thurnbrein is an authority on woman labour." "I read nothing," Selingman declared, moving over and grasping her by the hand. "I read nothing. People are my books. I am forty-five years old. I have done with reading.
Your secretary's somewhere about the place turned up with a typewriter early this morning. And there's a young woman " "A what?" Maraton asked. "A young woman," Henneford continued, "secretary's sister or something." Maraton smiled. "Miss Thurnbrein." "What, the tailoress?" Preston replied. "She's a good sort. Wrote rare stuff, she did, about her trade. They are out together, seeing the sights.
"Maraton!" he almost shrieked. "Maraton!" the other echoed. "He is here in London!" The face of the older man twitched with excitement. "But they will arrest him!" "If they dared," Aaron Thurnbrein declared harshly, "a million of us would tear him out of prison. But they will not. Maraton is too clever. America has not even asked for extradition. For our sakes he keeps within the law.
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