"I see! we dance on a volcano," said Laurence, uneasily. Rouge nodded. "We would all die; the best and the worst." "Sacrifice your own lives?" "Yes, and those of others, Monsieur. When we take the oath we are already as dead. Let Monsieur reflect." "Monsieur has reflected," said Laurence, giving the man money. "I shall be at Poplar Street next Wednesday. At what time?" "Nine of the evening. It will be a great meeting, a grand meeting, and Monsieur will take the oath." Mallow nodded. "Yes, Monsieur will take the oath," he repeated, and, after a second inquiring look, Rouge, with the money in his pocket, glided out of the room. The cat-like movements of the man, his glistening eyes and sibilant whispers, inspired Mallow with nothing but repulsion. Still he was kind to him, and, knowing the poor wretch often went without a meal, frequently gave him the price of one. Whether Rouge was grateful Mallow knew not, but he gave no sign of gratitude, and watched the young man unceasingly. He never told him his real name, nor spoke of his past in any way. His conversation, for the most part, consisted of extracts from revolutionary pamphlets, imprecations upon those in power, and expressions of jubilation for the day when a tide of blood should roll over Europe. To Mallow he was a veritable creature of nightmare. On leaving this red-hot destroyer of human civilization, Mallow walked quickly to his lodgings in Half-Moon Street. The walk did him good. It cooled his blood and cleared his brain. As he passed by Hyde Park he noticed he was being followed. A man was dogging him like a shadow, pausing when he paused, and following him steadily at no great distance. Brave as he was, Mallow felt a qualm. He wondered if the Anarchists, suspecting him of treachery, were having him watched. He felt that suspense was worse than danger, so he determined to right-about face and know the worst at once. He turned up a side street for half a dozen yards. Then he faced round and walked back. By this man[oe]uvre he almost ran into the arms of his follower. "Jeremiah Trall!" exclaimed Mallow, recognizing him in the lamplight. "What do you want? Why are you following me?" Trall looked round swiftly, and beckoned Mallow into the comparative darkness of the side street. "I wish to speak with you privately," he said in his refined voice. "I am afraid of being watched." "Come to my rooms, then." "No," replied Trall, "they would follow. My life would not be safe. Better here." He led Mallow up some distance into a gloomy corner. "Mr. Mallow," he said, sinking his voice, "why are you joining us?" "What is that to you?" asked Mallow, fencing. "You have some scheme in your head, and I wish to know it. You are no true Anarchist; you don't care two pins about the cause." Mallow reflected. The man might be trying to trap him into some incautious speech, duly to be reported to Mrs. Arne. Trall guessed the cause of his hesitation and laughed.