“Quick!  Now’s your chance!” said Lucille, eagerly.  “Father’s been called to the telephone.  Hurry!”

Archie took another drink of ice-water to steady his shaking nerve-centers, pulled down his waistcoat, straightened his tie, and then, with something of the air of a Roman gladiator entering the arena, tottered across the room.  Lucille turned to entertain the perplexed music-publisher.

The nearer Archie got to Mr. Aloysius Connolly the less did he like the looks of him.  Even at a distance the Labour leader had had a formidable aspect.  Seen close to, he looked even more uninviting.  His face had the appearance of having been carved out of granite, and the eye which collided with Archie’s as the latter, with an attempt at an ingratiating smile, pulled up a chair and sat down at the table was hard and frosty.  Mr. Connolly gave the impression that he would be a good man to have on your side during a rough-and-tumble fight down on the water-front or in some lumber-camp, but he did not look chummy.

“Hallo-allo-allo!” said Archie.

“Who the devil,” inquired Mr. Connolly, “are you?”

“My name’s Archibald Moffam.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I’m jolly old Brewster’s son-in-law.”

“Glad to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you,” said Archie, handsomely.

“Well, good-bye!” said Mr. Connolly.

“Eh?”

“Run along and sell your papers.  Your father-in-law and I have business to discuss.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Private,” added Mr. Connolly.

“Oh, but I’m in on this binge, you know.  I’m going to be the manager of the new hotel.”

“You!”

“Absolutely!”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Connolly, noncommittally.

Archie, pleased with the smoothness with which matters had opened, bent forward winsomely.

“I say, you know!  It won’t do, you know!  Absolutely no!  Not a bit like it!  No, no, far from it!  Well, how about it?  How do we go?  What?  Yes?  No?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Call it off, old thing!”

“Call what off?”

“This festive old strike.”

“Not on your—­hallo, Dan!  Back again?”

Mr. Brewster, looming over the table like a thundercloud, regarded Archie with more than his customary hostility.  Life was no pleasant thing for the proprietor of the Cosmopolis just now.  Once a man starts building hotels, the thing becomes like dram-drinking.  Any hitch, any sudden cutting-off of the daily dose, has the worst effects; and the strike which was holding up the construction of his latest effort had plunged Mr. Brewster into a restless gloom.  In addition to having this strike on his hands, he had had to abandon his annual fishing-trip just when he had begun to enjoy it; and, as if all this were not enough, here was his son-in-law sitting at his table.  Mr. Brewster had a feeling that this was more than man was meant to bear.