In the lobby something of a fracas was proceeding between a member of the Russian delegation and a Bolshevik refugee. It seemed that the latter was accusing the former of having been responsible for the disappearance of Dr. Svensen, who had always had such a kind heart for starving Russians, and who had irritated the Whites in old days by sending money to the Bolshevik government for their relief. The accusing refugee, who looked a hairy ruffian indeed, was supported by applause from a claque of Finns, Ruthenians, Lithuanians, Esthonians, Latvians, and others who had a dislike for the Russian Empire. M. Kratzky's well-earned nickname, "Butcher of Odessa," was freely hurled at him, and the Slavs present were all in an uproar, as Slavs will be if you excite them. Gravely, from a little way off, a group of Japanese looked on. "Obviously," the _Times_ murmured discreetly, "the Bolshies think attack the best form of self-defence. I'm much mistaken if they don't know something of this business." For it was well known that the exiled Bolsheviks were vexed at the admission of monarchist Russia to the League, and might take almost any means (Russians, whether White or Red, being like that) of showing it. "An enemy hath done this thing," murmured the gentle voice of Dr. Silvio Franchi to Lord John Lester, who had walked impatiently out of the Assembly Hall when the voting began, because he did not believe that a committee was going to be of the least use in finding his friends. He turned courteously towards the ex-cardinal, whom he greatly liked. "What discord, where all was harmony and brotherhood!" continued Dr. Franchi sadly. "Not quite all. Never quite all, even before," corrected Lord John, who, though an idealist, faced facts. "There were always elements of ... But we were on the way; we were progressing. And now--this." He waved his hand impatiently at the vociferous Slavs, and then at the door of the Assembly Hall. "All at one another's throats; all hurling accusations; all getting telegrams from home about each other; all playing the fool. And there are some people who say there is no need for a League of Nations in such a world!" 23 Impatiently Lord John Lester pushed his way through the chattering crowds in the lobby, and out into the street. He wanted to breathe, and to get away from the people who regarded the recent disasters mainly as an excitement, a news story, or a justification for their international distastes. To him they were pure horror and grief. They were his friends who had disappeared; it was his League which was threatened. Moodily he walked along the paths of the Jardin Anglais; broodingly he seated himself upon a bench and stared frowning at the _jet d'eau_, and suspected, against his will, the Spanish and Portuguese Americans. A large lady in purple, walking on high-heeled shoes as on stilts, and panting a little from the effort, stopped opposite him.