too, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be
conclusive." He paused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless
silence, then almost immediately went on. "You are not a bit better than
the forces arrayed against you--than the police, for instance. The other
day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham
Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. But I did not look at him.
Why should I give him more than a glance? He was thinking of many
things--of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his
salary, of newspapers--of a hundred things. But I was thinking of my
perfect detonator only. He meant nothing to me. He was as insignificant
as--I can't call to mind anything insignificant enough to compare him
with--except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The terrorist and the
policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, legality--counter
moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical. He plays
his little game--so do you propagandists. But I don't play; I work
fourteen hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My experiments cost money
now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or two. You're
looking at my beer. Yes. I have had two glasses already, and shall have
another presently. This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone.
Why not? I've the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone.
I've worked alone for years."

Ossipon's face had turned dusky red.

"At the perfect detonator--eh?" he sneered, very low.

"Yes," retorted the other. "It is a good definition. You couldn't find
anything half so precise to define the nature of your activity with all
your committees and delegations. It is I who am the true propagandist."

"We won't discuss that point," said Ossipon, with an air of rising above
personal considerations. "I am afraid I'll have to spoil your holiday
for you, though. There's a man blown up in Greenwich Park this morning."

"How do you know?"

"They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o'clock. I
bought the paper, and just ran in here. Then I saw you sitting at this
table. I've got it in my pocket now."

He pulled the newspaper out. It was a good-sized rosy sheet, as if
flushed by the warmth of its own convictions, which were optimistic. He
scanned the pages rapidly.

"Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich Park. There isn't much so far.
Half-past eleven. Foggy mor