“Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich Park. There isn’t much so far. Half-past eleven. Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as far as Romney Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in the ground under a tree filled with smashed roots and broken branches. All round fragments of a man’s body blown to pieces. That’s all. The rest’s mere newspaper gup. No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up the Observatory, they say. H’m. That’s hardly credible.” He looked at the paper for a while longer in silence, then passed it to the other, who after gazing abstractedly at the print laid it down without comment. It was Ossipon who spoke first—still resentful. “The fragments of only _one_ man, you note. Ergo: blew _himself_ up. That spoils your day off for you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort of move? I hadn’t the slightest idea—not the ghost of a notion of anything of the sort being planned to come off here—in this country. Under the present circumstances it’s nothing short of criminal.” The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with dispassionate scorn. “Criminal! What is that? What _is_ crime? What can be the meaning of such an assertion?” “How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,” said Ossipon impatiently. “The meaning of this assertion is that this business may affect our position very adversely in this country. Isn’t that crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving away some of your stuff lately.” Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, lowered and raised his head slowly. “You have!” burst out the editor of the F. P. leaflets in an intense whisper. “No! And are you really handing it over at large like this, for the asking, to the first fool that comes along?” “Just so! The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don’t fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it, whatever you may think. Yes, I would give the stuff with both hands to every man, woman, or fool that likes to come along. I know what you are thinking about. But I am not taking my cue from the Red Committee. I would see you all hounded out of here, or arrested—or beheaded for that matter—without turning a hair. What happens to us as individuals is not of the least consequence.” He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and Ossipon, secretly much affected, tried to copy this detachment. “If the police here knew their business they would shoot you full of holes with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you from behind in broad daylight.” The little man seemed already to have considered that point of view in his dispassionate self-confident manner. “Yes,” he assented with the utmost readiness. “But for that they would have to face their own institutions. Do you see? That requires uncommon grit. Grit of a special kind.” Ossipon blinked.