s
long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five
knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the
conspirators.

"Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more
shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless
poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge
for some time at Scotland Yard."

Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice.

"What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice.

"Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear
your friends coming."

From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It
was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of
Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the
corridor.

CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

BEFORE one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's
stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a
bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the
Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up
a pale and polite hand.

"Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a
curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both
in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."

Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his
question.

"Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell
the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a
policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only
watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual
duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the
police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of
that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one
solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by
inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I
cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see
me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely."

Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were
a sea-monster.

"I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all
this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you,
to howl in for ever."

"I sh