"No, miss," the inspector replied in the same tone; "the most dangerous object in this place seems to be your printer" (he pointed at Short), "and we have kept at a fairly safe distance from _him_. Still, of course, I have to go through all these papers; they may yet give us a clue to the whereabouts of Kosinski or your friend Giannoli;" and here he looked me straight in the face. "Maybe," I simply replied with a shrug. I felt perfectly tranquil on that score, and had but small doubt that Kosinski was by now already on his way out of the country, as he would judge from the papers that the police would be on his track. "And when will this search be over?" I inquired. "Oh, I cannot exactly tell you. It will take me some days to go all through these papers. We shall probably be here for two or three days." I looked around me. Everything was disorganised. The type cases had all been emptied into a heap in the middle of the room, the forms ready locked up had been pied, the MSS. and papers sequestered. It was utterly hopeless to think of bringing out the _Tocsin_. The scene reminded me of my first experience of an Anarchist printing-office after the police raid on the _Bomb_; but now I no longer had Armitage to encourage me with his unswerving optimism and untiring energy, nor Kosinski to urge me on with his contempt of dilettantism and half-hearted enthusiasm. True, Short was there, much the same as in the old days; even his dog could be heard snarling and growling when the policemen administered to him some sly kick; but as I looked at the squalid and lethargic figure with its sallow, unhealthy, repulsive face, I was overcome by a feeling of almost physical nausea. I realised fully how loathsome this gutter Iago had become to me during the past few months, during which I had had ample opportunity to note his pettifogging envy and jealousy, his almost simian inquisitiveness and prying curiosity. I felt I could not work with him; his presence had become intolerable to me. I realised that this was the _finale_, the destined end of the _Tocsin_ and of my active revolutionary propaganda. I had changed. Why not let the dead bury their dead? At this moment the policeman who had opened the office door to me came up bringing a letter, which he handed to the inspector. "It is for you, miss," that functionary said, reading the address, "but I have orders to open all correspondence. You will excuse my complying with them." My heart stood still. Could it be from Kosinski or Giannoli? After a moment the inspector handed the note to me. It was from the landlord--a notice to quit. I walked up and showed it to Short. "Well, what will you do?" he inquired. They were the first words we had exchanged that morning. "I shall leave," I replied. "And how about the paper? Do you think of starting it again?" "No, I do not think so; not for the present at any rate." "And the 'plant'?" "I shall leave that too. You can look after it, you and the comrades!"