“No, sir, I am acting for the men.”
“Well, it’s the same thing. Benefit one, benefit all. Come, come, I insist. I put down my foot. Call it wages, if you like. No doubt you didn’t want to strike.”
“I didn’t want to, but I struck.”
“Same thing, same thing. You must take the money.”
“I’d much rather not, sir.”
Marsten saw the anxiety of his host, who acted as a man might over whose head some disaster impended, and it weakened his resolution not to take the money. He understood that for some reason Mr. Hope wanted him to take the money and be gone.
“Tut, tut,” persisted the old man, eagerly. “We mustn’t let trifles stand in the way of success.”
As he was speaking, an imperious voice sounded in the hall—the voice of a woman. A sudden pallour overspread Mr. Hope’s face, that reminded Marsten of the look it wore when the twelve policemen escorted him and his partner through the crowd.
“Here, here,” said the old man, in a husky whisper, “take the money and say nothing about it—nothing about it.”
Marsten took the money, and slipped it into his pocket. The voice in the hall rang out again.