THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY.
But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who—"
The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman.
"It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't——"
The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish.
"Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name——"
Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.
"His name is Gogol," said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole."
Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief.
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