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better drains. We shall know better. We shall know that the real reason is that gun which is too horrible to be used. But it doesn't matter that they wont know; let them feel the benefits—that is all that matters."

Sally sat quietly, her head bowed. It was all slipping away from her.

"What do you wantV she said.

"Oh, power," he said. "Power is very interesting. Shall I tell you why? Because it is infinitely changeable. You take money, which is financial power, and with it you employ men—muscle power—to build you a factory, and in the factory you burn coal, which is the power of heat, and you change water into steam, and you lead the power of the steam into the cylinders of an engine and turn it into a mechanical power, and with that mechanical power you build more engines, and sell them, and turn them back into financial power again; or you take your steam engines and make a dam to hold back vast quantities of water, and construct pipes and valves and let the water run through with great force and turn a dynamo, so that the power of money changes into water power, which changes into electrical power, and so the changes go on, infinitely. Another word for it is energy, of course. An English poet—so Windlesham tells me, I have not enough time to enjoy the poets—an English poet wrote 'Energy is eternal delight.' I could not express it better. Perhaps that is why we have poets." I Sally could think of no answer. She knew with some

distant part of her that he was utterly wrong, that there were arguments to refute everything he said, but she knew she'd never find them now. He was so strong, and she was so tired. She swayed, pulled herself upright, and forced herself to raise her head to look at him.

"You're wrong," she said, and her voice was hardly audible. "About the people. I know what they say. They hate the Steam Gun, your workers. They know what it means, and they loathe it. You keep it secret because you're afraid of what people would think if they knew—that's the only reason. You know the British people wouldn't stand for it if they saw it clearly for what it is—a tyrant's weapon, a coward's weapon. You misjudge us, Mr. Bellmann. You misjudge your workers and you misjudged me."

"Oh, I didn't misjudge you," he said, "I admired you from the start. You have true courage, but you are innocent. These British people you mention: shall I tell you the truth? If they knew, they wouldn't mind. They'd have no scruples about making the most horrible weapon ever invented—none whatever—^they wouldn't^ give it a thought. They'd take their wages and enjoy their sports field and be proud of their children and, in fact, you know, they'd be proud of the weapon as well, and want one with a British flag on it, and sing about it in the music halls. Oh, there are a few idealists, pacifists—harmless people. There is room for them. But the majority are as I describe, not as you describe. Reality is with me. I promised you the truth: there it is."

And she knew that he was right.

She looked across at him again. He was still sitting calmly, relaxed, powerful, one leg over the other, hands resting along the arms of the chair. His hair shone gold in the lamplight; his face was unlined, she noticed now, and full of a strange, luminous wisdom, yet with an undertow of rippling humor, as if to say Pain and suffering and sadness — yes, they exist, but they are not the whole, and they pass. The world is delightful, like the play of sunlight on water. Energy is eternal delight. . . .

"You know," he said after they'd been silent for almost a minute, "I made a mistake in seeking the hand of Lady Mary Wytham. She is very beautiful, and the connections she brought—her graphite mines, for instance—^would have been most usefiil, but it was still a mistake. It involved me in the ridiculous pursuit of that comical Scotsman Mackinnon—^well, you know all about that. Too late to do anything about it now, of course; the engagement is over. Wytham himself will suffer most, but it is his own fault. I wonder. . . . An idea occurs to me. Miss Lockhart. You may treat it as pure fancy, but there is more to it than that. Here it is: You are the sort of young woman I should marry. You are strong, brave, intelligent, and resourceful. Lady Marys beauty would fade. Yours is not as dazzling, but it is a beauty of mind and character, and it will grow stronger. You are a match for me. And I am a match for you. We have been fighting each other; we each know the others measure. May I ask you a question now? I

know you will answer it truthfully. Out of the enmity you once felt for me, has there come respect?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her eyes were held by his; she dared not move.

"We disagree on many things," he went on. "That is good. You have an independent mind. Perhaps you will change my opinion on some matters; perhaps I shall convince you of the merits of my viewpoint on others. One thing is certain: You would not be passive and decorative, which would have been Lady Marys limit. Even if she had been free to marry me, I do not think she would have been happy. You, Miss Lockhart, I judge to be a woman for whom happiness is secondary anyway. What you want most is activity and purpose. I can promise you that—all that you want. You understand what I am doing? I am proposing marriage to you—marriage, and more than marriage: partnership. Together, you and I, we would be magnificent—and who knows? In the rare intervals in all that vital work, when you have a moment to catch your breath, you may find yourself with a sensation that is hard to put a name to, until you remember that it is a by-product of work, called happiness. Miss Lockhart"—^he sat forward now and reached out to take her hands in his— "will you marry me?"

Sally felt dazed.

She had come here expecting to face anger, scorn, violence, and she was prepared for that; this left: her

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breathless. She let her hands rest where they were. Her head was ringing. Now that they were actually touching, she felt the force of the man as never before. His personality was mesmerizing; his very flesh was electric with energy; his eyes held her transfixed; the flow of his words was irresistible. She had to struggle for the strength to speak, but then she found it and opened her mouth.

"I—** was all she had time to say, for there was an urgent knock at the door.

Bellmann let go of her hands and looked around. Yes? What is it?"

The servant opened the door, and there stood Alis-tair Mackinnon. Sally sank back in her chair, half fainting.

He was terrified, that was plain. He was dripping wet—it was obviously raining hard outside—and the hand that held his hat was shaking uncontrollably. He glanced from Sally to Bellmann and back to Sally again, and then fixed his tyts, wide with fear, on the financier.

"I have come for—for Miss Lockhart," he said faindy.

Bellmann didn't move.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Miss Lockhart," said Mackinnon, tearing his eyes away from Bellmann and addressing her directly, "Jim [Taylor and I have come to—to help you home. Jim is— he's hurt, you know. His leg is broken. He couldn't walk

in here; hes at the gate. We came because . . /' His eyes flashed back to Bellmann, and then to Sally again. "You can—come away now," he finished.

And she saw the courage that he'd had to summon up to enter the house of the man who'd been going to kill him, and found the strength to speak.

"Its too late, Mr. Mackinnon," she said. She forced j herself to sit up straight, as straight as Miss Susan Walsh j had done in her office, and with an effort that almost made her faint again she controlled her voice and said, "Mr. Bellmann has just asked me to marry him. I am on the point of deciding whether or not to accept his offer." i

She sensed Mackinnons incredulity. Keeping her \ eyes away from Bellmann, she went on:

"It depends on whether he can afford it. My hand in marriage will cost Mr. Bellmann three thousand two hundred and seventy pounds. That is the sum of money I tried to persuade him to give me some time ago. I had nothing to sell him then. But now that he has expressed an interest in marrying me, perhaps the situation has altered—I don't know."

Mackinnon was unable to speak. He seemed helpless in the electric charge that flowed between Sally and Bellmann. His ty^s moved back to Bellmann, and then he jumped, startled, as Bellmann laughed. 1

"Ha, ha, ha! I was right—^you are a match for md Of course you shall have it. In gold? Now?" he said.

She nodded, and Bellmann got to his feet, feeling on

his watch chain for a key. When he'd found it, he opened a small safe behind the desk and, as they watched, took out three small sealed bags, threw them on the desk, and tore the seal off another, tipping it upside down. A flood of glittering coins spilled out on the blotter. He swiftly counted out two hundred and seventy pounds' worth, returned them to the bag, and pushed all four bags toward Sally.

"Yours," he said. "To the penny."

She stood. The die was cast now; there was no going back. She gathered the bags of gold and handed them to Mackinnon. His hands were shaking more than hers.

"Please," she said, "do this for me. Take this money to Miss Susan Walsh, of number three, Benfleet Avenue, Croydon. Can you remember that?"

He repeated the name and address, and then said helplessly, "But Jim—he's made me come here. I cant—

"Hush," she said. "It's all over now. I'm going to marry Mr. Bellmann. Please go. Tell Jim . . . no, say nothing to Jim. Just go."

He looked like a lost child. With one last glance at Bellmann, he nodded faintly and left.

As the door closed behind him Sally sank down into the chair again, and in a moment Bellmann had surged forward to kneel at her side. It was like a dam breaking. He took her hands, and she felt as if all that power he had talked about, all those metamorphoses and alterations, had come to their final state in him: that he was

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steam power, electric power, mechanical power, financial power made flesh. He kissed her hands again and again, and his kisses were somehow charged with the sulfurous crackle she'd heard from the wires beside the railway lines as she walked through the valley to the house.

But it was done now. It was nearly finished.

"I am tired," she said. "I want to sleep. But before I lie down, I'd like to see the Steam Gun. Can you take me there and show me what it's like? It would be a pity to come all this way and not see it."

"Of course," he said, and rose at once to ring the bell. "It is a good time to see it. I love the works at night. We are making great progress with electric lighting, you know. What do you know about gunnery, my dear?"

She stood up and gathered her heavy bag from the floor. It was quite easy now, as long as her voice kept steady, as long as she didn't tremble.

"As a matter of fact," she said, "I know a good deal. But I am always prepared to learn more."

He laughed happily as they walked to the front door.

The guard let Mackinnon out of the gate and locked it again behind him. Half running, half stumbling, clutching the bags of gold to his chest, Mackinnon made his way through the driving rain to the cab where Jim sat nursing the brandy flask, almost delirious with pain.

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Jim couldn t take it in at first. Mackinnon had to go through it twice and then shake the bags so Jim could hear the coins jingHng.

"Marry him?" said Jim thickly. "She said that?"

"Aye! It was like a bargain—she was selling herself for this gold! And I had to promise to take it to a lady in Croydon—"

"Her client," said Jim. "The one she lost the money for . . . in Bellmanns firm, see. . . . Oh, you bloody fool, what you want to let her do that for?"

"Me? I couldnae—it was her in charge, Jim, you know how strong she is—"

"No, I didn't mean that, mate. You did all right. You had the guts to go in there. Were all square now. I meant me. Oh, Christ, this leg, I dont know what I mean. I'm worried, Mackinnon. I think she's going to .. ."

He groaned again and rocked to and fro in his agony. The flask, nearly empty now, took a trembling journey to his lips, then fell to the floor of the cab, making the patient horse shake its harness. The rain was lashing down even harder outside. Mackinnon wiped the sweat ofT Jim's forehead with his sleeve, but Jim didn't notice.

"Help me out," he mumbled. "She's up to something—I don't like the sound of it. Come on, man give us a hand . . ."

Bellmann tenderly held the waterproof cloak around Sally with one arm and an umbrella over both of them

with the other as they hastened down the gravel path toward the brightly lit building where the Steam Gun stood. He had given orders for the whole compound to be illuminated, and each light that came on gleamed yellow in a halo of moisture and splashing drops.

The building was called shed number one. As she'd seen from the edge of the valley, it was isolated from the rest of the works, and they had to cross an open area of wet gravel, with the rain driving in hard, before they reached the shelter of the wall. A watchman, warned that they were coming, dragged the great door open on its rollers, and a blast of heat and light greeted them.

"Dismiss the men for half an hour," Bellmann told the foreman who came toward them. "They may go to the canteen and refresh themselves. This is an extra break; I shall take charge of the boiler myself. I want the building empty for my guest."

Sally stood by while the dozen or so men downed tools and left. Some of them glanced curiously at her; j some looked neither at her nor at Bellmann. There was \ a muted, restrained quality in their attitude to Bellmann; she couldn't place it until she realized that it was fear. ||

When the last of them had gone, and the great doorT was rolled back in place, he helped her step up onto a platform overlooking the length of the building, turned to her, and said, "My kingdom, Sally."

It was like a railway engine shed. There were three

separate parallel rail tracks, and on each stood what looked like a heavy freight carriage in the course of construction. The farthest one was still only a chassis, but she could see the massive iron framework that would hold the firebox, the boiler, and, she supposed, the firing mechanism. The central one was nearly complete, but for its shell: a mass of enormously complex pipe work, too intricate for the eye to penetrate, with a trav-ehng crane on a beam holding part of the boiler suspended above it.