《代号星期四》04第二章 盖布利尔·赛姆的秘密（在线收听）

CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME

 THE cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded.

“Will you take a little supper?” asked Gregory politely. “The pate de foie gras is not good here, but I can recommend the game.”

Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference—

“Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise.”

To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said “Certainly, sir!” and went away apparently to get it.

“What will you drink?” resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. “I shall only have a creme de menthe myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?”

“Thank you!” said the motionless Syme. “You are very good.”

His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite.

“Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!” he said to Gregory, smiling. “I don’t often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way.”

“You are not asleep, I assure you,” said Gregory. “You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth.”

“And who are we?” asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass.

“It is quite simple,” replied Gregory. “We are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe.”

“Oh!” said Syme shortly. “You do yourselves well in drinks.”

“Yes, we are serious about everything,” answered Gregory.

Then after a pause he added—

“If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don’t put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don’t wish you to do yourself an injustice.”

“Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad,” replied Syme with perfect calm; “but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?”

“Certainly!” said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. “Try one of mine.”

Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance.

“You must not mind it,” said Gregory; “it’s a kind of screw.”

“Quite so,” said Syme placidly, “a kind of screw. How simple that is!”

The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair.

Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password.

Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked.

“I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities,” said Gregory; “we have to be very strict here.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” said Syme. “I know your passion for law and order,” and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death.

They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in.

“And now, my dear Mr. Syme,” said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, “now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?”

“It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety,” assented Syme; “but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?”

“To abolish God!” said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. “We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong.”

“And Right and Left,” said Syme with a simple eagerness, “I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me.”

“You spoke of a second question,” snapped Gregory.

“With pleasure,” resumed Syme. “In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?”

Gregory smiled.

“The answer is simple,” he said. “I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.”

Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on.

“The history of the thing might amuse you,” he said. “When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, ‘Down! down! presumptuous human reason!’ they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence—the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out ‘Blood!’ abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, ‘Let the weak perish; it is the Law.’ Well, well, it seems majors don’t do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe.”

“What is his name?” asked Syme.

“You would not know it,” answered Gregory. “That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they were heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands.”

He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed—

“But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, ‘What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?’ He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face. ‘You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?’ I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion’s voice. ‘Why, then, dress up as an anarchist, you fool!’ he roared so that the room shook. ‘Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.’ And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and—by God!—they would let me wheel their perambulators.”

Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes.

“You took me in,” he said. “It is really a smart dodge.”

Then after a pause he added—

“What do you call this tremendous President of yours?”

“We generally call him Sunday,” replied Gregory with simplicity. “You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor.”

He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment.

“I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme,” he continued casually. “I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don’t mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be.” He looked down for a moment modestly. “It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday.”

“My dear fellow.” said Syme heartily, “I congratulate you. A great career!”

Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly.

“As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table,” he said, “and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible.”

Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt’s revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak.

“I have only to get the form of election finished,” continued Gregory with animation, “then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then—then—oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!” And he clasped his hands.

Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation.

“Why is it,” he asked vaguely, “that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?” He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, “Is it because you are such an ass?”

There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out—

“Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?”

“A promise?” asked Gregory, wondering.

“Yes,” said Syme very seriously, “a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?”

“Your secret?” asked the staring Gregory. “Have you got a secret?”

“Yes,” said Syme, “I have a secret.” Then after a pause, “Will you swear?”

Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly—

“You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes.”

Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers’ pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators.

“Well,” said Syme slowly, “I don’t know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard.”

Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice.

“What do you say?” he asked in an inhuman voice.

“Yes,” said Syme simply, “I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming.”

From the doorway there came a murmur of “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor.

第二章 盖布利尔·赛姆的秘密

    马车在一家非常沉闷的油晃晃的啤酒屋前停了下来，格里高利带领他的同伴迅速走了进去。在一个狭窄微暗的单间里，他们在一张肮脏的只有一条腿的木桌子旁坐了下来。房间又小又暗，在黑暗与朦胧中，对应声而来的侍者除了庞大体格和胡子有模糊的印象外，他的样貌很难看清。

    “你想吃一点晚餐吗？”格里高利礼貌地问，“这里的鹅肝酱不太好，不过我可以推荐野禽。”

    赛姆听后反应冷淡，认为这是个玩笑，他认可了其中些许的幽默，带着一种教养漠然地说：“哦，给我拿一份蛋黄调味龙虾。”

    令他莫名惊讶的是，这个侍者只说了句“当然可以，先生”就去拿了。

    “你喝什么？”格里高利接着问，带着同样的随意而歉然的神色，“我只要一张薄荷薄饼；我已经吃过了。不过香槟酒可以信赖。请允许我先给你上半瓶宝马利香槟。”

    “谢?谢！”一动不动的赛姆说，“你太好了。”他又聊了一些没有条理的话，龙虾的出现打断了他的话。赛姆尝了尝龙虾，发现非常好吃，然后他带着好胃口迅速地吃了起来。

    “请原谅我表现得过于明显的喜爱！”他笑着对格里高利说，“我很少有机会得到这样的一个美梦。噩梦能带来龙虾，这对我来说很新奇。因为这通常是两码事。”

    “你不是在梦中，我向你保证。”格里高利说，“相反，你已经接近你人生中最真实最激动人心的时刻。喔，你的香槟酒来了！确实，我承认这家酒店出色的内在布置和它简朴的外表之间有些微的不相称，可是这就是我们的谦虚。我们是地球上有史以来最谦虚的人。”

    “我们是谁？”赛姆问，并喝光了他酒杯中的香槟。

    “很简单，”格里高利答道，“我们是你不相信的最严肃的无政府主义者。”

    “哦！”赛姆马上说，“你对喝酒很在行。”

    “是的，我们严肃对待一切！”格里高利回答。停了一下，他补充道：“如果过一会儿这张桌子开始轻微地旋转，不要放倒它，使得你损失你的香槟酒。我不希望你对自己不公。”

    “嗯，如果我不是醉了，就是疯了，”赛姆极度镇静地答道，“不过我确信我可以在两种情况下都表现得像个绅士。我可以吸烟吗？”

    “当然可以！”格里高利说着拿出了一盒雪茄，“吸我的。”

    赛姆拿起一支雪茄，从马甲口袋里拿出雪茄剪子剪去雪茄根部，放进嘴巴，慢吞吞地点燃，然后呼出了一股长长的烟云。他以少有的沉着完成这些仪式，因为几乎就在他开始动作之前，他坐的那张桌子开始旋转，首先还是慢慢地旋转，接着迅速旋转，仿佛置身于一个疯狂的降神会。

    “你千万不要介意，”格里高利说，“这是一种螺杆。”

    “的确如此，”赛姆平静地说，“一种螺杆。很简单的一种！”

    下一刻，他的雪茄烟雾弯弯曲曲地穿过房间，就像工厂烟囱里的烟笔直向上，而这俩人连同他们的椅子和桌子飞快地穿透地面，仿佛大地吞噬了他们。他们突然就像被割掉绳索的电梯迅速地撞到底层。但当格里高利推开两扇门，地下撒进一丝红光时，赛姆跷着二郎腿吸烟，一点也不惊慌。

    格里高利带他走向低矮的拱形通道，通道的尽头就是红灯。这是一盏跟壁炉一样巨大的深红色灯，被固定在一扇笨重的小铁门上。门上有个窗口，或者是格栅，格里高利在上面敲了五下。一种沉闷的外国口音问他是谁。他给出了多少让人出乎意料的回答：“约瑟夫·张伯伦先生。”然后笨重的铰链开始移动，很明显这是某种口令。

    门口通道闪着就像是镶嵌着铁丝网的微光。再定睛一看，赛姆发现这种闪光的图案是由一排排紧密捆着的步枪和左轮手枪组成。

    “请原谅我让你经受了这些俗套，”格里高利说，“在这里我们必须非常严格。”

    “哦，不必道歉，”赛姆说，“我了解你对于法律和秩序的热情。”然后，他走进两旁布满钢制武器的通道。他长长的金发和相当时髦的长大衣使他走下那条闪光的死亡大道时就像一个格外脆弱而古怪的人。

    他们走过几条相似的通道，最后走进了一个包钢的带有凸出墙面的古怪大厅，它几乎呈球形，但一排排长椅使它凸显一点科学讲堂的样子。这个大厅没有步枪或手枪，但墙上挂着样子看起来就像铁制的植物的球茎或者铁制的鸟蛋的东西更为可疑和可怕。它们是炸弹，而这个大厅构造看起来就像炸弹内部。赛姆在墙上蹭掉烟灰，走了进去。

    “现在，我亲爱的赛姆先生，”格里高利说，一边豪爽地坐到最大的炸弹下面的长椅上，“现在我们很舒适，就让我们得体地谈话。人类的语言无法使你领悟我带你来这儿的理由。这是那些相当武断的情绪之一，就像跳下悬崖或者爱上别人。只要说你以前是一个令人讨厌至极的家伙就足够了，而且，说真的，你现在仍然令人厌恶。为了获得灭你威风的快感，我就要违背二十个保密誓约。你点雪茄的样子会使一个神父背弃告解保密。嗯，你说过你很确定我不是一个严肃的无政府主义者。那么，这个地方会使你认为我是严肃的吗？”

    “这种欢乐的气氛似乎深有寓意，”赛姆表示同意，“我可以问你两个问题吗？你不必害怕告诉我情况，因为，正如你所记得的，你曾非常聪明地逼迫我承诺不告诉警察，我会信守我的承诺。所以我问的问题仅仅是出于好奇。首先，这究竟是怎么一回事？你反对什么？你想要取消政府吗？”

    “取消上帝！”格里高利说着，张大他那双狂热的眼睛，“我们不仅仅要推翻专制政府和警察规章；那种无政府主义确实存在，但它只不过是一个分支的创新者。我们越往深处挖掘，打击力度就越大。我们希望否定所有那些微不足道的造反者所奉行的关于恶行和美德、尊严和背叛的武断区分。法国大革命中愚蠢的伤感主义者竟然谈论人权！我们像仇恨恶行一样仇恨权利！我们已经取消了对与错。”

    “还有右和左，”赛姆热切地说，“我希望你把它们也取消。它们太令我讨厌了。”

    “你的第二个问题。”格里高利厉声说。

    “我很乐意，”赛姆继续说道，“在你目前所有的行为和环境中有一种从事秘密勾当的企图。我的一个姨妈曾住在一家商店的上面，而这是我第一次发现有人偏爱住在一家酒馆的下面。你有一扇沉重的铁门，你不屈尊称自己为张伯伦先生就无法通过它。如果我可以这样说，你用钢铁器械围绕这个地方，相比自在更令人印象深刻。我是否可以问你，在你不厌其烦地把自己隐藏于大地深处之后，你为什么要通过对塞夫伦庄园的所有愚蠢的妇女谈论无政府主义来夸耀你全部的秘密？”

    格里高利笑了。

    “答案很简单，”他说，“我告诉过你我是一个严肃的无政府主义者，可你不相信我，她们也不相信我。除非我把她们带进这间地下室，不然她们都不会相信我。”

    赛姆若有所思地吸着烟，兴致勃勃地看着他。格里高利继续说下去。

    “这件事的来龙去脉可能会令你发笑，”他说，“当我一开始成为一个新式无政府主义者的时候，我试过各种可敬的伪装。我曾打扮得像一个主教。我在诸如《迷信是吸血鬼》和《凶恶的神父》之类的无政府主义小册子里研读所有关于主教的内容，在这里面我理所当然地理解成主教是对人类保守残酷秘密的怪异可怕的老男人。我被误导了。当我第一次穿着主教的绑腿式长筒靴出现在某个客厅时，我以打雷般的嗓音高叫，‘沉沦吧！沉沦吧！专横的人类理性！’他们就发现我并不是主教。我马上被逮捕了。我装扮成一个百万富翁，但我竭尽全力为《资本论》辩护，以至于一个傻瓜也能看出我很穷。然后我扮做一个少校，现在的我是一个人道主义者，我希望自己有足够的知识广度理解处于这个职位的人，像尼采一样赞美暴力，自豪于壮观、疯狂的自然之战，理解你知道的诸如此类的那些人的立场。我投入地扮演少校。我拔出剑不断挥舞，心不在焉地喊着‘鲜血’，就像一个讨酒的男子。我常常说‘让弱者死去，这就是法则’，可是，少校们似乎不这么干。于是我又被捕了。最后我在绝望中投奔了无政府主义中央理事会的主席，那个全欧洲最伟大的人。”

    “他叫什么名字？”赛姆问。

    “你不会知道的，”格里高利答道，“这正是他的伟大之处。恺撒和拿破仑竭尽他们的天赋让自己扬名，然后他们就扬名了。他竭尽他的天赋使自己默默无名，然后他就默默无名了。但是，你只要在一个房间里和他待上五分钟，你就会发觉恺撒和拿破仑和他相比就是个孩子。”

    一瞬间，他脸色苍白地沉默了，然后接着说：“可每当他给出建议，这建议总是像警示语一样令人吃惊，同时又像英格兰银行一样务实。我问他，‘什么样的伪装可以使我躲开这个世界？我可以找到什么样的比主教和少校更体面的身份？’他转过他高深莫测的脸看着我。‘你想要一个安全的伪装，是吗？你想要一件确保你无害的、无人会从中寻找炸弹的外衣？’我点点头。他突然提高了他狮子般的嗓门。‘嗯，那么，打扮得像一个无政府主义者，你这个傻瓜！’他吼叫时房子都震动了。‘然后，没有人会期待你做任何危险的事情。’他用宽阔的后背对着我，不再发一言。我接受了他的建议，从未遗憾。我日日夜夜向那些女性鼓吹鲜血和谋杀，然后——天哪——她们竟会允许我推她们的婴儿车。”

    赛姆坐着，蓝色的大眼睛带着敬意注视着他。“你欺骗了我，”赛姆说，“这实在是一个聪明的计谋。”停了片刻，他补充道：“你如何称呼你们这个了不起的主席？”

    “我们都叫他星期天。”格里高利简单地回答，“你看，无政府主义中央理事会有七个成员，他们以一星期的名字命名。他被称为星期天，他的一些仰慕者把他称为血腥星期天。跟你提到这个会令人奇怪，因为就在你突然造访（如果我可以这样说的话）的这个晚上，我们伦敦支部要在这个房间开会，选举一个填补理事会空缺的代表。那个在过去得体而广受好评地履行了星期四的艰难职责的绅士突然逝世了。所以，今天晚上我们要开会选举一个继任者。”他站起来，带着一种难堪的笑容在房间里踱步。

    “不知何故，我觉得你就像我的母亲，赛姆。”他漫不经心地继续说，“我觉得既然你承诺不告诉任何人，我就可以向你袒露一切。事实上，我要向你吐露一件事，这件事即使是对过十分钟就要来到这个房间的那些无政府主义者我也不会大费口舌的。我们当然要经历选举的形式，不过我不介意告诉你选举的结果几乎已经确定。”他谦虚地点一下头，“几乎可以确定我将成为星期四。”

    “我亲爱的朋友，”赛姆热忱地说，“我祝贺你。一项伟大的事业！”

    格里高利不以为然地笑了笑，踱着步，迅速又开了口。

    “实际上，我已经在这张桌子上准备好一切，”他说，“这将可能是最短的仪式。”

    赛姆也走到桌旁，发现上面放着一根手杖（如果细看的话会发现这是内藏一把剑的剑杖），一把大号的科尔特左轮手枪，一个三明治盒子以及一个令人生畏的白兰地酒瓶。在桌边的椅子上扔着一件厚重的披肩或斗篷。

    “我只需完成选举的形式，”格里高利继续兴奋地说，“然后，我会抓起这件斗篷和这根手杖，把其他东西塞进口袋，走出这个洞穴的门。门在河边，那里将有一条拖船在等我，然后——然后——哦，狂喜地成为星期四！”他握紧了双手。

    先前带着他惯常的无礼的倦怠坐下来的赛姆，再次带着一种不寻常的犹豫的神色站起身来。

    “为什么？”他茫然地问，“我认为你是个规矩的人吗？为什么我和你一样积极，格里高利？”他停了一下，然后带着一种新奇感补充道，“是因为你是这样一个笨蛋？”

    又有一个深思的沉默后，赛姆喊道：“哦，见鬼！这是我一生中最有趣的境遇，我将作出相应的行动。格里高利，我至死都会遵守来这儿之前我对你作出的承诺。为了我自己的安全，你能否给我一个类似的小小的承诺？”

    “一个承诺？”格里高利惊讶地问。

    “是的，”赛姆非常严肃地说，“一个承诺。我向上帝发过誓不把你的秘密告诉警方。你能否以人性或者任何你信仰的野蛮东西发誓你不会把我的秘密告诉那些无政府主义者？”

    “你的秘密？”格里高利盯着他问，“你有秘密？”

    “是的，”赛姆答道，“我有一个秘密。”停了片刻，“你能发誓吗？”

    格里高利瞪着他看了一会儿，然后突然说道：“你一定是蛊惑了我，不过我对你也极度地好奇。好，我可以发誓不把你告诉我的事告诉那些无政府主义者。不过快点，因为他们过两三分钟就到了。”

    赛姆慢悠悠站起来，把他那又长又白的手伸进他长长的灰色裤袋里。几乎在他这么做的同时，外面的格栅上传来了五声敲击，预示着第一批共谋者的到来。

    “嗯，”赛姆慢吞吞地说，“我直接把真相告诉你吧，你装扮成一个漫无目的的诗人的计谋并?不只有你和你们的主席知情。我们在伦敦警察厅得悉这一计谋已经有一段时间了。”

    格里高利想要跳起来，可他摇晃了三次。

    “你说什么？”他恶狠狠地问。

    “不错，”赛姆简单答道，“我是一个警探。不过我想我听见你的朋友们来了。”

    门口传来了“约瑟夫·张伯伦先生”的低语。它被重复了两三次，然后被重复了三十次，继而听见自称为约瑟夫·张伯伦的人们脚步沉重地走下走廊。