The captain of police recognized them, and when he knew what their errand was he permitted them to pass the lines. They started across the open plaza toward the front of the main building.
"You're going where you belong!" came the cry from those in the mob who saw them go. "You've sold us out, and you're going for your pay!" "Traitors!" "Blacklegs!"
All reason and judgment, all power to discriminate, seemed lost and swallowed up in the overwhelming passion of revolt that had seized upon the riotous crowd.
Two guards stood at the top of the steps, one at each side of the office door.
"We want to see Mr. Malleson," said the rector.
"You can't see him," was the reply. "No one is allowed to go in."
"But we must talk with him at once; it's a matter of life and death."
The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned and entered the building. He came back presently to say that Mr. Farrar might go in, but that Lamar would not be admitted under any conditions. So the labor leader went down the steps and stood by the railing outside, while the rector passed in to the office of the company. Mr. Malleson was there with his counsel, Philip Westgate, a half dozen anxious members of his board of directors, and a few frightened clerks. He looked up as the rector entered.
"Well," he asked bluntly, "what is your errand to-day?"
"I have come," said the rector, "to try to avert bloodshed."
"And you have brought with you the club and torch with which you threatened me."
"Mr. Malleson, this is no time for caviling. Do you see the mob in that street? It's only a question of minutes when the police barrier will be broken down,
