“The ringleader and the men near him began squawking like geese and hissing. The whole room took it up. Red Errico started a cry of ‘No more golden eggs for Tarsis and his gang!’ and joining in this every man left his loom and made for the door. Most of them did not wait to stop their machines. They rushed down-stairs and at each floor called to the others to follow. Every man, woman, and child of them ran pell-mell into the yard as if the mill were on fire. All the time they hissed and shouted, ‘No more golden eggs!’ The rabble of the quarter came up, joined the strikers, and before I knew it every window was smashed. It was a taste of what we may expect from that man Forza’s preaching.” Signor Ulrich perceived, not without a feeling of triumph, that his recital had moved Tarsis at last. “I have heard enough!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “The Government is to blame. It has been too soft with these Parliamentary mischief-makers. As to the strike,” he went on, “come to me to-morrow, and I shall have some plan. Should the unions send a committee meantime, refuse them audience. Until to-morrow, then, Signor Ulrich.” But the Austrian did not take himself off. “I beg your pardon,” he ventured, “but I cannot go without giving you a word of warning. There is great danger. I beg you not to expose yourself to it.” “What would you have me do, my friend? Go into hiding?” “No; and still----” “Bah! I am not afraid.” “Nevertheless, signore, if you had heard what I heard. Oh, the way they cried out against you! Believe me, their passions are roused, and there is no telling what a mob may do.” “It is considerate of you,” said Tarsis, “but I think I know how to take care of myself. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, sir; and again I beg of you not to expose yourself until after order is restored.” That the superintendent’s admonition was not wasted appeared when he had gone from the room. Tarsis paced the floor awhile, striving for some way to enter the furnace without getting burnt. To the quarter of the Ticinese Gate he was resolved to go to-night at whatsoever cost. If it were possible to sharpen his thirst for the blood of Mario Forza the turn of events, as narrated by the Austrian, had done the work. He felt that he could not compose himself to sleep again until a decisive step had been taken. As usual, his thinking bore fruit in definite ways and means; and in three hours, when the street lamps were lit, the master of the palace watched his chance and stole out by the Via Cappuccini gate. He had clipped his beard; instead of a white collar he wore a dark silk muffler; his hat was a broad-brimmed one of felt, and a pair of coloured goggles concealed his eyes. CHAPTER XVI HUNTING THE PANTHER