*

THE CONSPIRATORS

IV.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--The other evening I was sitting at an open-air cafe
whose coffee is better than its social reputation. To be exact it is a
low haunt. I always go there and have a cup of coffee in a glass when I
am wondering what to do next and feeling it is about time something was
happening. One of my acquaintances came and sat down at my table. To
confess the truth he has once been a pickpocket, the sort of
professional who followed the trade in the old dull days of peace for
the excitement it furnished. He has since served in the Foreign Legion,
and says that now he cannot bring himself to return to his normal work,
since by contrast it is so very tame. For a time he was stranded, but
now the international conspiracy business provides him with just the
sport he was looking for.

After a little conversation about pocket-picking, as it used to be in
the good old days, he asked me if I was interested in communist plots. I
said I was interested in anything. He looked round the cafe to see that
all was well, leant across the table and asked me if I was not
_particularly_ interested in communist plots. "Yes," I whispered, "as
long as it's a plot I'm interested in it, even though it is a communist
one."

He grew suspicious; why was I so interested? There is always a lot of
whispering and mutual suspicion about on these occasions. I told him of
these letters I was writing to you on the subject. This made him more
than suspicious; positively hostile. Who was this Charles? he wanted to
know. I told him all about you; explained that you were a good friend of
mine; quite all right--one of us.

He rather took to the description of you, dropped all signs of doubt or
anxiety and wondered if we couldn't get hold of you to come and take
coffee with us one evening? You may rest assured, Charles, that there is
now one cafe in Central Europe where you are regarded as a first-class
fellow, even though your acquaintance has yet to be made; _bon
camarade_; not above picking a pocket or two yourself in a moment of
enthusiasm. You must come here and show yourself one day. You need have
no fear. We never pick each others' pockets; it isn't considered
etiquette.

"I am now a Young Socialist," said my friend with great pride. The Young
Socialists are the worst communists there are.

"Really?" said I; "the last time we had a chat you were an ardent German
Monarchist."

He produced his Matriculatio