The finding of that little red-leather note-book, he fully understood, had at one stroke put him in possession of facts more vital to the labor-movement and the world at large than any which had ever developed since the very beginning of Capitalism.  A Socialist to the backbone, thoroughly class-conscious and dowered with an incisive intellect, Gabriel thrilled at thought that he, by chance, had been chosen as the instrument through which he felt the final revolution now must work.  And though he remained outwardly calm, as he bent above his toil, inwardly he was aflame.  His heart throbbed with an excitement he could scarce control.  His brain seemed on fire; his soul pulsed with savage joy and magnificent inspiration.  For he was only four-and-twenty, and the bitter grind of years and toil had not yet worn his spirit down nor quelled the ardor of his splendid strength and optimism.

Working at his routine labor, his mind was not upon it.  No, rather it dwelt upon the vast discovery he had made—­or seemed to have made—­the night before.  Clearly limned before his vision, he still saw the notes, the plans, the calculations he had been able to decipher in the Billionaire’s lost note-book—­the note-book which now, deep in the pocket of his jumper that hung behind him on a hook against the wall, drew his every thought, as steel draws the compass-needle.

“Incredible, yet true!” he pondered, as he filed a brass casting for a new-type dynamo.  “These men are plotting to strangle the world to death—­to strangle, if they cannot own and rule it!  And, what’s more, I see nothing to prevent their doing it.  The plan is sound.  They have the means.  At this very moment, the whole human race is standing in the shadow of a peril so great, a slavery so imminent, that the most savage war of conquest ever waged would be a mere skirmish, by comparison!”

Mechanically he labored on and on, turning the tremendous problem in his brain, striving in vain for some solution, some grasp at effective opposition.  And, as he thought, a kind of dumb hopelessness settled down about him, tangible almost as a curtain black and heavy.

“What shall I do?” he muttered to himself.  “What can I do, to strike these devils from their villainous plan of mastery?”

As yet, he saw nothing clearly.  No way seemed open to him.  Alone, he knew he could do nothing; yet whither should he turn for help?  To rival capitalist groups?  They would not even listen to him; or, if they listened and believed, they would only combine with the plotters, or else, on their own hook, try to emulate them.  To the labor movement?  It would mock him as a chimerical dreamer, despite all his proofs.  At best, he might start a few ineffectual strikes, petty and futile, indeed, against this vast, on-moving power.  To the Socialists?  They, through their press and speakers—­in case they should believe him and co-operate with him—­could, indeed, give the matter vast publicity and excite popular opposition; but, after all, could they abort the plan?  He feared they could not.  The time, he knew, was not yet ripe when Labor, on the political field, could meet and overthrow forces such as these.