At half-past seven o’clock the Major and Zachariah departed. They walked across the top of Hatton Garden, and so onwards till they came to Red Lion Street. Entering a low passage at the side of a small public-house, they went up some stairs, and found themselves opposite a door which was locked. The Major gave three taps and then paused. A moment afterwards he tapped again twice; the lock was turned, and he was admitted. Zachariah found himself in a spacious kind of loft. There was a table running down the middle, and round it were seated about a dozen men, most of whom were smoking and drinking beer. They welcomed the Major with rappings, and he moved towards the empty chair at the head of the board. “You’re late, chairman,” said one. “Been to fetch a new comrade.” “Is that the cove? He looks all right. Here’s your health, guv’nor, and d—n all tyrants.” With that he took a pull at the beer. “Swear him,” said the Major. A disagreeable-looking man with a big round nose, small red eyes, unshaven face, and slightly unsteady voice, rose, laid down his pipe, and beckoned to Zachariah, who advanced towards him. The Secretary—for he it was—produced a memorandum-book, and began with a stutter: “In the sacred name of—” “Stop!” cried Zachariah, “I don’t swear.” “That will do,” shouted the Major across a hubbub which arose—“religious. I’ll answer for him: let him sign; that’s enough.” “You _are_ answerable,” growled the Secretary “if he’s a d—d spy we’ll have his blood, that’s all, and yours too, Major.” The Major took no notice, and Zachariah put his name in the book, the roll of the Red Lion Friends of the People. “Business, Mr. Secretary—the last minutes.”