Anthony stepped out after him, but the doughty Comrade of the Red Hand had had enough. He got nimbly to his feet and fled down the passage. Anthony did not pursue him, but went back into his own room. “So much for the Comrades of the Red Hand,” he remarked. “Picturesque appearance, but easily routed by direct action. How the hell did that fellow get in, I wonder? There’s one thing that stands out pretty clearly—this isn’t going to be quite such a soft job as I thought. I’ve already fallen foul of both the Loyalist and the Revolutionary parties. Soon, I suppose, the Nationalists and the Independent Liberals will be sending up a delegation. One thing’s fixed. I start on that manuscript to-night.” Looking at his watch, Anthony discovered that it was nearly nine o’clock, and he decided to dine where he was. He did not anticipate any more surprise visits, but he felt that it was up to him to be on his guard. He had no intention of allowing his suit-case to be rifled whilst he was downstairs in the Grill Room. He rang the bell and asked for the Menu, selected a couple of dishes and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. The waiter took the order and withdrew. Whilst he was waiting for the meal to arrive, he got out the package of manuscript and put it on the table with the letters. There was a knock at the door, and the waiter entered with a small table and the accessories of the meal. Anthony had strolled over to the mantelpiece. Standing there with his back to the room, he was directly facing the mirror, and idly glancing in it he noticed a curious thing. The waiter’s eyes were glued on the parcel of manuscript. Shooting little glances sideways at Anthony’s immovable back, he moved softly round the table. His hands were twitching, and he kept passing his tongue over his dry lips. Anthony observed him more closely. He was a tall man, supple like all waiters, with a clean-shaven, mobile face. An Italian, Anthony thought, not a Frenchman. At the critical moment Anthony wheeled round abruptly. The waiter started slightly, but pretended to be doing something with the salt cellar. “What’s your name?” asked Anthony abruptly. “Giuseppe, Monsieur.” “Italian, eh?” “Yes, Monsieur.” Anthony spoke to him in that language, and the man answered fluently enough. Finally Anthony dismissed him with a nod, but all the while he was eating the excellent meal which Giuseppe served to him, he was thinking rapidly. Had he been mistaken? Was Giuseppe’s interest in the parcel just ordinary curiosity? It might be so, but remembering the feverish intensity of the man’s excitement, Anthony decided against that theory. All the same, he was puzzled. “Dash it all,” said Anthony to himself, “every one can’t be after the blasted manuscript. Perhaps I’m fancying things.”