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"These are the parasites," Matthew continued, a little contemptuously, "the slaves of the men who sit in the bank parlours of the world. Some day I shall pull the strings, and who cares to may watch the faces."

They turned away. Matthew walked apart for a few moments in absorbed silence. He was as nearly moved as ever they had seen him.

"Well," he said at last, "I have had my turn. Now you can be guide, Philip."

They took a 'bus as far as Fleet Street. Here they got out and walked slowly down the thronged thoroughfare.

"For me it is more difficult to reach the concrete," Philip expounded, "but here, on either side of us, are the newspaper offices of the country. If you listen, you can hear the roar of the machinery above the sound of the traffic. The written word of the cleverest men whom the genius of selection can bring together is being flung into type to carry its message all over the world. Somewhere up in those quieter rooms, shut off from the world by green baize doors and jealous secretaries, men sit and think. Imagine their power! The word that flows from their pen will fashion the thought of to-morrow. They let loose the dogs of war or hold them in. The power of your men in the bank parlours is great enough, Matthew, but what about these? They direct the thought of the world. The men in the bank parlours can only change its temporal fortunes."