He glanced at his watch and nodded.
"Stay with your brother, little one," he directed, turning to Julia.
"We shall be away only a few moments. Come."
"Where are we going?" Maraton enquired, as they passed through the restaurant and ascended the stairs.
Selingman placed his finger by the side of his nose.
"A plan of mine," he whispered. "Maxendorf is here, in a private room."
Selingman hurried his companion into a small private dining-room. Maxendorf was sitting there alone, smoking a cigarette over the remnants of an unpretentious feast. He welcomed them without a smile; his aspect, indeed, as he waved his hand towards a chair, was almost forbidding.
"What do you want with me, Maraton?" he asked. "They tell me—Selingman tells me—there was a word you had to say before you press the levers. Say it, then, and remember that hereafter, the less communication between you and me the better."
Maraton ignored the chair. He stood a little way inside the room. Through the partially opened window came the ceaseless roar of traffic from the busy street below.
"Maxendorf," he began, "there isn't much to be said. You know—Selingman has told you—what my decision is. It took me some time to make up my mind—only because I doubted one thing, and one thing alone, in the world. That one thing, Maxendorf, was your good faith."
Maxendorf lifted his eyes swiftly.