anything, more abundant.
But what interested Tommy was the thing he had hoped to find, a
communicating door between the two rooms, up on the left by the window.
Carefully closing the door into the passage behind him, he stepped across to the
other and examined it closely. The bolt was shot across it. It was very rusty,
and had clearly not been used for some time. By gently wriggling it to and fro,
Tommy managed to draw it back without making too much noise. Then he repeated
his former manoeuvres with the handle–this time with complete success. The
door swung open–a crack, a mere fraction, but enough for Tommy to hear what
went on. There was a velvet portiere on the inside of this door which prevented
him from seeing, but he was able to recognize the voices with a reasonable
amount of accuracy.
The Sinn Feiner was speaking. His rich Irish voice was unmistakable:
“That’s all very well. But more money is essential. No money–no results!”
Another voice which Tommy rather thought was that of Boris replied:
“Will you guarantee that there ARE results?”
“In a month from now–sooner or later as you wish–I will guarantee you
such a reign of terror in Ireland as shall shake the British Empire to its
foundations.”
There was a pause, and then came the soft, sibilant accents of Number One:
“Good! You shall have the money. Boris, you will see to that.”
Boris asked a question:
“Via the Irish Americans, and Mr. Potter as usual?”
“I guess that’ll be all right!” said a new voice, with a transatlantic
intonation, “though I’d like to point out, here and now, that things are getting
a mite difficult. There’s not the sympathy there was, and a growing disposition
to let the Irish settle their own affairs without interference from America.”
Tommy felt that Boris had shrugged his shoulders as he answered:
“Does that matter, since the money only nominally comes from the States?”
“The chief difficulty is the landing of the ammunition,” said the Sinn
Feiner. “The money is conveyed in easily enough–thanks to our colleague here.”
Another voice, which Tommy fancied was that of the tall, commanding-looking
man whose face had seemed familiar to him, said:
“Think of the feelings of Belfast if they could hear you!”
“That is settled, then,” said the sibilant tones. “Now, in the matter of
the loan to an English newspaper, you have arranged the details satisfactorily,
Boris?”
“I think so.”
“That is good. An official denial from Moscow will be forthcoming if
necessary.”
There was a pause, and then the clear voice of the German broke the
silence:
“I am directed by–Mr. Brown, to place the summaries of the reports from
the different unions before you. That of the miners is most satisfactory. We
must hold back the railways. There may be trouble with the A.S.E.”
For a long time there was a silence, broken only by the rustle of papers
and an occasional word of explanation from the German. Then Tommy heard the
light tap-tap of fingers, drumming on the table.
“And–the date, my friend?” said Number One.
“The 29th.”
The Russian seemed to consider:
“That is rather soon.”
“I know. But it was settled by the principal Labour leaders, and we cannot
seem to interfere too much. They must believe it to be entirely their own
show.”
The Russian laughed softly, as though amused.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “That is true. They must have no inkling that we are
using them for our own ends. They are honest men–and that is their value to
us. It is curious–but you cannot make a revolution without honest men. The
instinct of the populace is infallible.” He paused, and then repeated, as
though the phrase pleased him: “Every revolution has had its honest men. They
are soon disposed of afterwards.”
There was a sinister note in his voice.
The German resumed:
“Clymes must go. He is too far-seeing. Number Fourteen will see to that.”
There was a hoarse murmur.
“That’s all right, gov’nor.” And then after a moment or two: “Suppose I’m
nabbed.”
“You will have the best legal talent to defend you,” replied the German
quietly. “But in any case you will wear gloves fitted with the finger-prints of