white tablecloth, silver, warmth, a waiter like an ambassador. Mr. d’Hémon did not even sit down, but walked up and down the room looking at the tips of his fingers. Prokop, heavy and sleepy, dropped into a chair; it was a matter of complete indifference to him whether he ate or not. All the same he drank some hot soup, poked at one or two dishes, scarcely able to hold the fork, twisted a glass of wine in his fingers and burnt his throat with some scalding coffee. Mr. d’Hémon still did not sit down but went on walking up and down the room, every now and then taking a mouthful as he went along. When Prokop had finished eating he gave him a cigar and lit up himself. “So,” he said, “and now to business.
“From now,” he began, still walking up and down, “I shall be for you simply . . . Comrade Daimon. I will introduce you to our people; they’re not far away. You mustn’t take them too seriously; amongst them there are desperadoes, people evading justice from all the corners of the world, fanatics, babblers, doctrinaires and dilettante salvationists. Don’t ask them for their programme; they are only material which we use for our purposes. The chief thing is that we can put at your disposal an extensive secret international organization which has its branches everywhere. The only programme is direct action. Through this we’ll get hold of everybody without exception. They’re already crying for it, like children for a new toy. Anyway they’ll find the fascination of a ‘new programme of action,’ ‘destruction inside the head’ irresistible. After the first successes they’ll follow you like sheep—especially if
