looking at my beer. Yes. I have had two glasses already, and shall have
another presently. This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone.
Why not? I've the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone.
I've worked alone for years."

Ossipon's face had turned dusky red.

"At the perfect detonator--eh?" he sneered, very low.

"Yes," retorted the other. "It is a good definition. You couldn't find
anything half so precise to define the nature of your activity with all
your committees and delegations. It is I who am the true propagandist."

"We won't discuss that point," said Ossipon, with an air of rising above
personal considerations. "I am afraid I'll have to spoil your holiday
for you, though. There's a man blown up in Greenwich Park this morning."

"How do you know?"

"They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o'clock. I
bought the paper, and just ran in here. Then I saw you sitting at this
table. I've got it in my pocket now."

He pulled the newspaper out. It was a good-sized rosy sheet, as if
flushed by the warmth of its own convictions, which were optimistic. He
scanned the pages rapidly.

"Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich Park. There isn't much so far. Half-
past eleven. Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as far as Romney
Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in the ground under a tree filled