“There’s a fellow like you mentioned in the Bible,” retorted Triona. “I have always admired Didymus for his scientific mind,” said Dawkins. Triona pulled up his trouser leg and exposed his ankle. “That’s the mark of fetters. There was a chain and a twelve pound shot at the end of it.” “Doubtless you displeased the authorities,” said Dawkins blandly. “Oh, I’ve read your book, Mr. Triona. But before judging I should like to hear the other side.” “I’m afraid, Mr. Blenkiron,” said Triona, growing white about the nostrils, to his host who stood by in a detached sort of manner, with his hands on his hips, “I’ve unconsciously abused your hospitality.” Blenkiron protested cheerfully. “Not a bit, my dear fellow. We pride ourselves on our broad mindedness. If you preached reactionary Anglicanism here you would be listened to with respect and interest. On the other hand, we expect the same consideration to be shown to the apostles—if you will pardon the word—of our advanced thought. Your experiences were, beyond doubt, very terrible. But we admit the necessity of a reign of terror. We shall have it in this country within the next ten years. Possibly—probably—all of us here and all the little gods we cling to will be swept away like the late Russian aristocracy and _intelligentsia_. But suppose we are all—Dawkins, my sister, and myself—prepared to suffer martyrdom for the sake of humanity, what would you have to say against us? Nay—you can be quite frank. Words cannot hurt us.” “I should say you ought to be tied up in Bedlam,” said Triona. “Do you agree with that, Miss Gale?” said Roger Blenkiron, turning on her suddenly. She reflected for a moment. Then she replied: “If you can prove beyond question that in fifty years’ time you will create a more beautiful world, there’s something in your theories. If you can’t, you all ought to be shot.” He laughed and held out his hand. “That’s straight from the shoulder. That’s what we like to hear. Shake hands on it.” He drew a little book from his pocket and scribbled a memorandum. “You’re on the free-list of _The Signal_. I think Agnes has your address. You’ll find in it overwhelming proof. Perhaps, Mr. Triona, too, would like——” But Triona shook his head. “As a technical alien perhaps it would be inadvisable for me to be in receipt of revolutionary literature.” “I quite understand,” smiled Blenkiron, returning the book to his pocket. Dawkins melted away. Other guests took leave of their host. Triona and Olivia, making a suffocating course towards the door, were checked by Agnes Blenkiron who was eager to introduce them to Tom Pyefinch who, during the war had suffered, at the hands of a capitalist government, the tortures of the hero too brave to fight. “Oh, no, no,” cried Olivia horrified.