"I was thinking," he said, straightforwardly, "whether I wouldn't like to make a pile so as to give it to the movement. But, you see, Mr. Strong, the chaps are expecting me and that settles it. I am much obliged but it would be dishonourable in me."
"You know what is in front?" asked Strong, calmly, making a last effort.
"I think so. I'm told I'm one of those to be locked up. What does that matter? That won't lose me any friends."
"A stubborn man will have his way," remarked Strong. Adding, at a venture: "Particularly when there is a woman in it."
"There is a woman in it," answered Ned, flushing a little; "a woman who won't have me."
Strong opened the door. "I've done my best for you," he said. "Don't blame me whatever happens. You, at least, had your choice of peace or war, of more than peace."
"I understand. Personally, I shan't blame you," said Ned. "I choose war, more than war," and he set his mouth doggedly.
"War, at any rate," answered Strong, holding out his hand, his face as grave as Ned's. The two men gripped hands tightly, like duellists crossing swords. Without another word they shook hands heartily and separated.
Strong closed the door and walked up and down his room, hurriedly, deep in thought, pulling his lip. He sat down at his desk, took up his pen, got up and paced the room again. He went to the window and looked out into the well that admitted light to the centre of the great fortress-building. Then walked back to his desk and wrote.
"He is a dangerous man," he murmured, as if excusing himself. "He is a most dangerous man."