me；　　my　dear　Tuesday；　that　he　is　not　likely　even　to　forget　it。　Now　when　you　were　found　under　Admiral　Biffin's　bed〃
  〃I　am　not　good　at　deception；〃　said　Tuesday　gloomily；　flushing。
  〃Right；　my　boy；　right；〃　said　the　President　with　a　ponderous　heartiness；　〃you　aren't　good　at　anything。〃
  While　this　stream　of　conversation　continued；　Syme　was　looking　more　steadily　at　the　men　around　him。　As　he　did　so；　he　gradually　felt　all　his　sense　of　something　spiritually　queer　return。
  He　had　thought　at　first　that　they　were　all　of　common　stature　and　costume；　with　the　evident　exception　of　the　hairy　Gogol。　But　as　he　looked　at　the　others；　he　began　to　see　in　each　of　them　exactly　what　he　had　seen　in　the　man　by　the　river；　a　demoniac　detail　somewhere。　That　lop…sided　laugh；　which　would　suddenly　disfigure　the　fine　face　of　his　original　guide；　was　typical　of　all　these　types。　Each　man　had　something　about　him；　perceived　perhaps　at　the　tenth　or　twentieth　glance；　which　was　not　normal；　and　which　seemed　hardly　human。　The　only　metaphor　he　could　think　of　was　this；　that　they　all　looked　as　men　of　fashion　and　presence　would　look；　with　the　additional　twist　given　in　a　false　and　curved　mirror。
  Only　the　individual　examples　will　express　this　half…concealed　eccentricity。　Syme's　original　cicerone　bore　the　title　of　Monday；　he　was　the　Secretary　of　the　Council；　and　his　twisted　smile　was　regarded　with　more　terror　than　anything；　except　the　President's　horrible；　happy　laughter。　But　now　that　Syme　had　more　space　and　light　to　observe　him；　there　were　other　touches。　His　fine　face　was　so　emaciated；　that　Syme　thought　it　must　be　wasted　with　some　disease；　yet　somehow　the　very　distress　of　his　dark　eyes　denied　this。　It　was　no　physical　ill　that　troubled　him。　His　eyes　were　alive　with　intellectual　torture；　as　if　pure　thought　was　pain。
  He　was　typical　of　each　of　the　tribe；　each　man　was　subtly　and　differently　wrong。　Next　to　him　sat　Tuesday；　the　tousle…headed　Gogol；　a　man　more　obviously　mad。　Next　was　Wednesday；　a　certain　Marquis　de　St。　Eustache；　a　sufficiently　characteristic　figure。　The　first　few　glances　found　nothing　unusual　about　him；　except　that　he　was　the　only　man　at　table　who　wore　the　fashionable　clothes　as　if　they　were　really　his　own。　He　had　a　black　French　beard　cut　square　and　a　black　English　frock…coat　cut　even　squarer。　But　Syme；　sensitive　to　such　things；　felt　somehow　that　the　man　carried　a　rich　atmosphere　with　him；　a　rich　atmosphere　that　suffocated。　It　reminded　one　irrationally　of　drowsy　odours　and　of　dying　lamps　in　the　darker　poems　of　Byron　and　Poe。　With　this　went　a　sense　of　his　being　clad；　not　in　lighter　colours；　but　in　softer　materials；　his　black　seemed　richer　and　warmer　than　the　black　shades　about　him；　as　if　it　were　compounded　of　profound　colour。　His　black　coat　looked　as　if　it　were　only　black　by　being　too　dense　a　purple。　His　black　beard　looked　as　if　it　were　only　black　by　being　too　deep　a　blue。　And　in　the　gloom　and　thickness　of　the　beard　his　dark　red　mouth　showed　sensual　and　scornful。　Whatever　he　was　he　was　not　a　Frenchman；　he　might　be　a　Jew；　he　might　be　something　deeper　yet　in　the　dark　heart　of　the　East。　In　the　bright　coloured　Persian　tiles　and　pictures　showing　tyrants　hunting；　you　may　see　just　those　almond　eyes；　those　blue…black　beards；　those　cruel；　crimson　lips。
  Then　came　Syme；　and　next　a　very　old　man；　Professor　de　Worms；　who　still　kept　the　chair　of　Friday；　though　every　day　it　was　expected　that　his　death　would　leave　it　empty。　Save　for　his　intellect；　he　was　in　the　last　dissolution　of　senile　decay。　His　face　was　as　grey　as　his　long　grey　beard；　his　forehead　was　lifted　and　fixed　finally　in　a　furrow　of　mild　despair。　In　no　other　case；　not　even　that　of　Gogol；　did　the　bridegroom　brilliancy　of　the　morning　dress　express　a　more　painful　contrast。　For　the　red　flower　in　his　button…hole　showed　up　against　a　face　that　was　literally　discoloured　like　lead；　the　whole　hideous　effect　was　as　if　some　drunken　dandies　had　put　their　clothes　upon　a　corpse。　When　he　rose　or　sat　down；　which　was　with　long　labour　and　peril；　something　worse　was　expressed　than　mere　weakness；　something　indefinably　connected　with　the　horror　of　the　whole　scene。　It　did　not　express　decrepitude　merely；　but　corruption。　Another　hateful　fancy　crossed　Syme's　quivering　mind。　He　could　not　help　thinking　that　whenever　the　man　moved　a　leg　or　arm　might　fall　off。
  Right　at　the　end　sat　the　man　called　Saturday；　the　simplest　and　the　most　baffling　of　all。　He　was　a　short；　square　man　with　a　dark；　square　face　clean…shaven；　a　medical　practitioner　going　by　the　name　of　Bull。　He　had　that　combination　of　savoir…faire　with　a　sort　of　well…groomed　coarseness　which　is　not　uncommon　in　young　doctors。　He　carried　his　fine　clothes　with　confidence　rather　than　ease；　and　he　mostly　wore　a　set　smile。　There　was　nothing　whatever　odd　about　him；　except　that　he　wore　a　pair　of　dark；　almost　opaque　spectacles。　It　may　have　been　merely　a　crescendo　of　nervous　fancy　that　had　gone　before；　but　those　black　discs　were　dreadful　to　Syme；　they　reminded　him　of　half…remembered　ugly　tales；　of　some　story　about　pennies　being　put　on　the　eyes　of　the　dead。　Syme's　eye　always　caught　the　black　glasses　and　the　blind　grin。　Had　the　dying　Professor　worn　them；　or　even　the　pale　Secretary；　they　would　have　been　appropriate。　But　on　the　younger　and　grosser　man　they　seemed　only　an　enigma。　They　took　away　the　key　of　the　face。　You　could　not　tell　what　his　smile　or　his　gravity　meant。　Partly　from　this；　and　partly　because　he　had　a　vulgar　virility　wanting　in　most　of　the　others　it　seemed　to　Syme　that　he　might　be　the　wickedest　of　all　those　wicked　men。　Syme　even　had　the　thought　that　his　eyes　might　be　covered　up　because　they　were　too　frightful　to　see。
  CHAPTER　VI
  THE　EXPOSURE
  SUCH　were　the　six　men　who　had　sworn　to　destroy　the　world。　Again　and　again　Syme　strove　to　pull　together　his　common　sense　in　their　presence。　Sometimes　he　saw　for　an　instant　that　these　notions　were　subjective；　that　he　was　only　looking　at　ordinary　men；　one　of　whom　was　old；　another　nervous；　another　short…sighted。　The　sense　of　an　unnatural　symbolism　always　settled　back　on　him　again。　Each　figure　seemed　to　be；　somehow；　on　the　borderland　of　things；　just　as　their　theory　was　on　the　borderland　of　thought。　He　knew　that　each　one　of　these　men　stood　at　the　extreme　end；　so　to　speak；　of　some　wild　road　of　reasoning。　He　could　only　fancy；　as　in　some　old…world　fable；　that　if　a　man　went　westward　to　the　end　of　the　world　he　would　find　somethingsay　a　treethat　was　more　or　less　than　a　tree；　a　tree　possessed　by　a　spirit；　and　that　if　he　went　east　to　the　end　of　the　world　he　would　find　something　else　that　was　not　wholly　itselfa　tower；　perhaps；　of　which　the　very　shape　was　wicked。　So　these　figures　seemed　to　stand　up；　violent　and　unaccountable；　against　an　ultimate　horizon；　visions　from　the　verge。　The　ends　of　the　earth　were　closing　in。
  Talk　had　been　going　on　steadily　as　he　took　in　the　scene；　and　not　the　least　of　the　contrasts　of　that　bewildering　breakfast…table　was　the　contrast　between　the　easy　and　unobtrusive　tone　of　talk　and　its　terrible　purport。　They　were　deep　in　the　discussion　of　an　actual　and　immediate　plot。　The　waiter　downstairs　had　spoken　quite　correctly　when　he　said　that　they　were　talking　about　bombs　and　kings。　Only　three　days　afterwards　the　Czar　was　to　meet　the　President　of　the　French　Republic　in　Paris；　and　over　their　bacon　and　eggs　upon　their　sunny　balcony　these　beaming　gentlemen　had　decided　how　both　should　die。　Even　the　instrument　was　chosen；　the　black…bearded　Marquis；　it　appeared；　was　to　carry　the　bomb。
  Ordinarily　speaking；　the　proximity　of　this　positive　and　objective　crime　would　have　sobered　Syme；　and　cured　him　of　all　his　merely　mystical　tremors。　He　would　have　thought　of　nothing　but　the　need　of　saving　at　least　two　human　bodies　from　being　ripped　in　pieces　with　iron　and　roaring　gas。　But　the　truth　was　that　by　this　time　he　had　begun　to　feel　a　third　kind　of　fear；　more　piercing　and　practical　than　either　his　moral　revulsion　or　his　social　responsibility。　Very　simply；　he　had　no　fear　to　spare　for　the　French　President　or　the　Czar；　he　had　begun　to　fear　for　himself。　Most　of　the　talkers　took　little　heed　of　him；　debating　now　with　their　faces　closer　together；　and　almost　uniformly　grave；　save　when　for　an　instant　the　smile　of　the　Secretary　ran　aslant　across　his　face　as　the　jagged　lightning　runs　aslant　across　the　sky。　But　there　was　one　persistent　thing　which　first　troubled　Syme　and　at　last　terrified　him。　The　President　was　always　looking　at　him；　steadily；　and　with　a　great　and　baffling　interest。　The　enormous　man　was　quite　quiet；　but　his　blue　eyes　stood　out　of　his　head。　And　they　were　always　fixed　on　Syme。
  Syme　felt　moved　to　spring　up　and　leap　over　the　balcony。　When　the　President's　eyes　were　on　him　he　felt　as　if　he　were　made　of　glass。　He　had　hardly　the　shred　of　a　doubt　that　in　some　silent　and　extraordinary　way　Sunday　had　found　out　that　he　was　a　spy。　He　looked　over　the　edge　of　the　balcony；　and　saw　a　policeman；　standing　abstractedly　just　beneath；　staring　at　the　bright　railings　and　the　sunlit　trees。
  Then　there　fell　upon　him　the　great　temptation　that　was　to　torment　him　for　many　days。　In　the　presence　of　these　powerful　and　repulsive　men；　who　were　the　princes　of　anarchy；　he　had　almost　forgotten　the　frail　and　fanciful　figure　of　the　poet　Gregory；　the　mere　aesthete　of　anarchism。　He　even