"What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply.

"I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should
call it at the very least a root."

"What do you mean?"

"The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a
Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show
a due observance of Sunday."

The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear
went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful
President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such
irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.

"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I
suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?"

"If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe
benevolence, "I think you'd better."

When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety
for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful
thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear
that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all
merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He
could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also
because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy