The effect was instantaneous. The swarthy face bent forward to meet his own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word: "_Brother_!" "_Brother_!" whispered Lessing in return. His pulses were racing, but he held himself resolutely in hand. A false move might spoil all. He must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. He sat in an attitude of attention while the Bearded One crouched over the table, speaking in baited tones. His accent was rather Jewish than foreign, a thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction. "I have been waiting. The time is short. I must be hurrying on. There are many places where I must carry the news!" His voice sank to an almost unhearable depth. "_It is for to-night_!" "To-night!" gasped Lessing in return. His real dismay at the nearness of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and it appeared that surprise was expected. "To-night! To-night! The chief has given the order. It is his way to make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours' notice. It is safer so. He has a wise head. All is arranged, and to-morrow, by this time to-morrow--" His lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. "London, the city of the oppressors--what will be left of the great London then? Nothing but a wilderness of fire and ruin!" Lessing's blood ran cold. An adventurer at heart, he yet had the true Englishman's love of the metropolis. At the thought of danger to London he winced as at a personal wound; in his heart dawned the surprising conviction that he would risk his own life, not once, but a dozen times over, to avert the destruction of that grey old pile. The destruction of London--mad words! Mad fancy! Was this man a maniac that he spoke of such an impossible feat? Agitated, almost gasping for breath, Lessing heard himself stammer detached words of inquiry: "When? Where? Where--How do they start--?" The answer came back in a low hissing whisper: "The oil tanks on the Thames! Ah-ha, it is a great scheme, a fine scheme. The fuel is lying there, ready to our hands. Three Brothers have volunteered for the bomb throwing. They will die for a great cause. Their names will be remembered as martyrs among us. The burning oil will flare out to the Thames. Think of it! Think of it! A river of flaming oil, joined by other rivers; all the tanks exploded, one by one; the stream of fire flowing along, leaving behind burning shipping, burning banks, spreading ruin to right and left. Think of it, Brother, think of it! Think of the dark stairways and passages, where a man may creep, a man with a torch helping the work, sending the sparks to a fresh home. Who can guard miles of river bank? Who can distinguish one worker from another? Ah, it will be a brave night, a brave night. We have waited, Brother, we have appeared to submit, but now--now--"