said the unknown.

"Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere
willingness is the final test."

"I do," said the other--"martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good
day."

Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light
of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came
out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great
conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who
was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard,
bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light
blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short,
became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had
first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he
finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small
blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number,
the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper
waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the
enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately
led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night
he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed
with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central
Council of Anarchists.

When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of
stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape
of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was
mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though
partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he
entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the
passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked
moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a
paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not
the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight.

Over the whole landscape lay a luminous and unnatural discoloration, as
of that disastrous twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in
eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was
actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some
sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desola