.. there was something missing.
It looked as if it might be so many Anarchists plotting a bomb affair.
And that's what it was. I suppose you will say I am inventing it when I
tell you that it used to sit round a table, in the basement of an Italian
restaurant, devising schemes for getting rid of people (especially people
like Charles) _en bloc_; that it didn't provide the Italian restaurant-
keeper with as much money as he thought he could do with; that the Italian
restaurant-keeper came round to see us after dark; wouldn't give his name;
came into the room hurriedly; locked the door behind him; whispered "H'st!"
and told us all about it. It requires an Italian to do that sort of thing
properly; but this fellow was better than the best. I couldn't go to a
cinema for months afterwards because it lacked the thrill of real life.
We were so impressed with his performance that we asked him his trade. He
dropped the sinister, assumed the bashful and told us that he was an
illusionist and juggler before he took to restaurant-keeping and sleuthing.
He juggled four empty ink-pots for our entertainment and made one of them
disappear. Not quite the way to treat a world-revolution; but there! This
was all in the autumn of 1918, when we were naturally a bit above
ourselves.
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