I went to the desk and registered, and upon seeing my name the clerk informed me that two gentlemen were waiting for me in the palm court. “I don’t know whether you want to see them, sir,” he said; “I think they are commercial travellers.” “I will see them in my room, if you will be good enough to send them up,” said I, and five minutes later the “commercial travellers” were shown in to me and introduced themselves as representatives of the Incorporated Carolina Cottonfields Company. “I am afraid I am rather tired to-night,” said I; “but as you seem in a hurry to do business I will compare your quotations.” When the door had shut upon the waiter who had shown them in we got to business. One, of course, was my friend Posser, and the other was young Klein, one of those brilliant children of the Fatherland, who had been in the service of the department ever since he left Heidelberg. “We are ordered to place ourselves at your disposal, Herr Heine,” said Klein, “and we have been here two days investigating the conditions.” “Are they favourable?” I asked. “Extremely so,” said Posser; “but you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself.” We exchanged experiences, and half an hour later I rang the bell for the waiter and my visitors were shown out. After I had dined I left the hotel for the rendezvous I had made outside the post-office. It was now raining heavily, and I would like to have taken a taxi, but Klein suggested that we should make our way on foot to our destination, which proved to be a very small hall in some unsavoury part of Manchester. It was a dilapidated building, the entrance door being flush with the street and had the appearance of being a mission hall dedicated to one of those dour and unhappy sects which find a virtue in the very dreariness of their environment. Two nights a week it was used for religious services, but on the other nights it was let out to whosoever cared to hire the place. On this occasion some sort of Labour meeting seemed to be in progress and a small bill attached to an inner baize door leading to the hall itself announced an address by Mr. William Craigmair on “Labour and the War.” The hall was sparsely filled and I do not suppose there were more than fifty people present when we walked in and took our seats. The man who was speaking was of the usual demagogic type, loud-mouthed, illogical, full of bitter jibes at Capitalism, which he said was the cause of the war and at the bottom of the whole European crisis. Klein nudged me. “Imagine this in Berlin!” he whispered. I nodded. It was indeed pathetic, and only shows how wholly inefficient the English police service is that it allowed such men to be at large. I sat through the tirade, a little bored if the truth be told, because this was to be the least interesting part of the evening.