The individuals comprising it were, as Rohscheimer had pointed out, remarkably alike, being all of a conventional Army type; and they were unobtrusively entering, one behind the other, and methodically taking up their places around the room! Even as he watched, the last man entered, and the big double doors were closed behind him! "What's this, Haredale?" came a hoarse whisper from Rohscheimer. "Where are these Johnnies comin' from? Does Mrs. R. know they're here?" "Couldn't say," was the reply. "But it would be a simple matter for a number of impostors to gain access to the house whilst dancing was in progress, provided they came in small parties and looked the part." "Impostors!" growled Rohscheimer uneasily. "Don't you think they've been invited, then?" "Well, who shut those doors?" muttered Haredale, leaning across the little table the better to observe what was going forward. "You don't mean----" began Rohscheimer, and broke off, as the orchestra dashed through the coda of the waltz and ceased. For stark amazement froze the words upon his tongue. Coincident with the last pair of dancers performing their final gyration and the hum of voices assuming a louder tone, each of the men standing around the walls produced a brace of revolvers and covered the particular group nearest to him! The conversational hum rose to a momentary roar, and ceased abruptly. The horns of taxi-cabs passing below could be plainly heard, and the drone and rattle of motor-buses. Men who had done good work in other emergencies looked down the gleaming barrels, back to the crowds of women--and had no inspiration, but merely wondered. Nobody moved. Nobody fainted. "Held up!" came, in pronounced Kansas, from somewhere amongst the crush. "Quick!" whispered Haredale. "We're overlooked! Through the conservatory, and----" "Pardon me!" Rohscheimer and Haredale turned, together, and each found himself looking directly into the little ring of a revolver's muzzle. A tall, slim figure in faultless evening dress stood behind them, half in the shadows. This mysterious stranger had jet black hair, and wore a black silk half-mask. The melodramatic absurdity of the thing came home strongly to Haredale. But its harsh reality was equally obvious. "Perhaps," continued the masked speaker, in a low, refined voice, and with a faint, elusive accent, "you will oblige me, Mr. Rohscheimer, by stepping forward so that your guests can see you? Sir Richard Haredale--may I trouble you?" Rohscheimer, his heavy features slightly pale, rose unsteadily. Haredale, after a rapid glance about him, rose also, with tightened lips; and the trio moved forward into full view of the assembled company. "The gentlemen surrounding you," said the man in the mask, slightly raising his voice, "are all sworn to the Cause which I represent. You would, perhaps, term them anarchists!" An audible shudder passed through the assemblage.