Fischer raised his eyebrows in mild surprise to find Nikasti waiting for him in the sitting room that evening, with his overcoat and evening hat. He closed the door of the bedroom from which he had issued carefully behind him.

"You don't need to go on with this business now that we have had our little talk," he remonstrated.

"I cannot leave until the twentieth," Nikasti replied. "I think it best that I remain here. Your cocktail, sir."

Fischer accepted the glass with a good-humoured little laugh.

"Well," he said, "I suppose you know what you want to do, but it seems to me unnecessary. Say, is anything wrong with you? You seem shaken, somehow."

"I am quite well," Nikasti declared gravely. "I am very well indeed."

Fischer stared at him searchingly from behind his spectacles.

"You don't look it," he observed. "If you'll take my advice, you'll get away from here and rest somewhere quietly for a few days. Why don't you try one of the summer hotels on Long Island?"

Nikasti shook his head.

"Until I sail," he decided, "I stay here. It is better so."

"You know best, of course," Fischer replied. "Where's Mr. Van Teyl?"

"He has gone out with his sister, sir—the young lady in the next suite," Nikasti announced.

Fischer sighed for a moment. Then he finished his cocktail, drew on his gloves, and turned towards the door.

"Well, good night," he said. "Perhaps you are wise to stay here.
Remember always what it is that you carry about with you."

"I shall remember," Nikasti promised.

Fischer entered his automobile and drove to a fashionable restaurant in the neighbourhood of Fifth Avenue. Arrived here, he made his way to a room on the first floor, into which he was ushered by one of the head waiters. Von Schwerin was already there, talking with a little company of men.

"Ah, our friend Fischer!" the latter exclaimed. "That makes our number complete."

A waiter handed around cocktails. Fischer smiled as he raised his glass to his lips.

"It is something, at least," he confided, "to be back in a country where one can speak freely. I raise my arm. Von Schwerin and gentlemen—'To the Fatherland!'"

They all drank fervently and with a little guttural murmur. Von
Schwerin set down his empty glass. He was looking a little glum.

"In many ways, my dear Fischer," he said, "one sympathises with that speech of yours; but the truth is best, and it is to talk truths that we have met this evening. We are gaining no ground here. I am not sure that we are not losing."

There was a moment's disturbed and agitated silence.

"It is bad to hear," one little man acknowledged, with a sigh, "but who can doubt it? There is a fever which has caught hold of this country, which blazes in the towns and smoulders in the country places, and that is the fever of money-making. Men are blinded with the passion of it. They tell me that even Otto Schmidt in Milwaukee has turned his great factories into ammunition works."

Von Schwerin's eyes flashed.

"Let him be careful," he muttered, "that one morning those are not blackened walls upon which he looks! We go to dinner now, gentlemen, and, until we are alone afterwards, not one word concerning the great things."

The partition doors leading into the dining room were thrown back and the little company of men sat down to dine. There were fourteen of them, and their names were known throughout the world. There was a steel millionaire, half-a-dozen Wall Street magnates, a clothing manufacturer, whose house in Fifth Avenue was reputed to have cost two millions. There was not one of them who was not a patriot—to Germany. They ate and drank through the courses of an abnormally long dinner with the businesslike thoroughness of their race. When at last the coffee and liqueurs had been served, the waiters by prearrangement disappeared, and with a little flourish Von Schwerin locked the door. Once more he raised his glass.

"To the Kaiser and the Fatherland!" he cried in a voice thick with emotion.

For a moment a little flash of something almost like spirituality lightened the gathering. They were at least men with a purpose, and an unselfish purpose.

"Oscar Fischer," Von Schwerin said, "my friends, all of you, you know how strenuous my labours have been during the last year. You know that three times the English Ambassador has almost demanded my recall, and three times the matter has hung in the balance. I have watched events in Washington, not through my own but through a thousand eyes. My fingers are on the pulse of the country, so what I say to you needs nothing in the way of substantiation. The truth is best. Notwithstanding all my efforts, and the efforts of every one of you, the great momentum of public feeling, from California to Massachusetts, has turned slowly towards the cause of our enemies. Washington is hopelessly against us. The huge supplies which leave these shores day by day for England and France will continue. Fresh plants are being laid down for the manufacture of weapons and ammunition to be used against our country. The hand of diplomacy is powerless. We can struggle no longer. Even those who favour our cause are drunk with the joy of the golden harvest they are reaping. This country has spoken once and for all, and its voice is for our most hated enemy."

There were a variety of guttural and sympathetic ejaculations. A dozen earnest faces turned towards Von Schwerin.

"Diplomacy," Von Schwerin continued, "has failed. We come to the next step. There have been isolated acts of self-sacrifice, splendid in themselves but systemless. Only the day before yesterday a great factory at Detroit was burned to the ground, and I can assure you, gentlemen, I who know, that a thousand bales of cloth, destined for France, lie in a charred, heap amongst the ruins. That fire was no accident."

There was a brief silence. Fischer nodded approvingly. Von Schwerin filled his glass.

"This," he went on, "was the individual act of a brave and faithful patriot. The time has come for us, too, to remember that we are at war. I have striven for you with the weapons of diplomacy and I have failed. I ask you now to face the situation with me—to make use of the only means left to us."

No one hesitated. Possibly ruin stared them in the face, but not one flinched. Their heads drew closer together. They discussed the ways and means of the new campaign.

"We must add largely to our numbers," Von Schwerin said, "and we had better have a fund. So far as regards money, I take it for granted—"

There was a little chorus of fierce whispers. Five million dollars were subscribed by men who were willing, if necessary, to find fifty.

"It is enough," their leader assured them. "Much of our labours will be amongst those to whom money is no object. Only remember, all of you, this. We shall be a society without a written word, with no roll of membership, without documents or institution, for complicity in the things which follow will mean ruin. You are willing to face that?"

Again that strange, passionate instinct of unanimity prevailed. To all appearance it was a gathering of commonplace, commercialised and bourgeois, easy-living men, but the touch of the spirit was there. Fischer leaned a little forward.

"In two months' time," he said, "every factory in America which is earning its blood money shall be in danger. There will be a reign of terror. Each State will operate independently and secretly."

"Our friend Fischer," Von Schwerin told them, "has promised to stay over here for the present to organise this undertaking. I, alas! am bound to remain always a little aloof, but the time may come, and very soon, too, when I shall be a free lance. On that day I shall throw my lot in with yours, to the last drop of my blood and the last hour of my liberty. Until then, trust Oscar Fischer. He has done great deeds already. He will show you the way to more."

Fischer took off his spectacles and wiped them.

"Our first proceeding," he said, "sounds paradoxical. It must be that we cease to exist. There can be no longer any meetings amongst us who stand in this country for Germany. Gatherings of this sort are finished. We meet, one or two of us, perhaps, by accident, in the clubs and in the streets, in our houses and perhaps in the restaurants, but the bond which unites us, and which no human power could ever sever because it is of the spirit, that bond from to-night is intangible. Wait, all of you, for a message. The task given to each shall not be too great."

Mr. Max H. Bookam, a little black-bearded man who had started life tailoring in a garret, and was now a multi-millionaire, raised his glass.

"No task shall seem too great," he muttered. "No risk shall make us afraid. Even the exile shall take up his burden."