WHEN Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, and final also, the lifted and leaden of the Professor, his fears returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a and another character as a pursuer, the might make him more interesting, but scarcely more . It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk.  
One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative , when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation—
 
“Are you a policeman?”
 
Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.
 
“A policeman?” he said, laughing . “Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?”
 
“The process was simple enough,” answered the Professor patiently. “I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now.”
 
“Did I take a policeman’s hat by mistake out of the restaurant?” asked Syme, smiling wildly. “Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman.”
 
The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a .
 
“But perhaps I misunderstood the of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being anything in German thought.”
 
“Are you in the police service?” said the old man, ignoring all Syme’s and desperate raillery. “Are you a detective?”
 
Syme’s heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.
 
“Your suggestion is ridiculous,” he began. “Why on earth—”
 
The old man struck his palsied hand on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.
 
“Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?” he in a high, crazy voice. “Are you, or are you not, a police detective?”
 
“No!” answered Syme, like a man on the hangman’s drop.
 
“You swear it,” said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were alive. “You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a ! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?”
 
He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.
 
“I am not in the British police,” said Syme with insane calm.
 
Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of .
 
“That’s a pity,” he said, “because I am.”
 
Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.
 
“Because you are what?” he said thickly. “You are what?”
 
“I am a policeman,” said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. “But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters’ club. I suppose I ought to arrest you.” And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.
 
Syme had for a flash the sensation that the had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of , was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from there must go a certain healthy . There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a of Satanic pride, tears, and third laughter. Syme’s egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his of yellow beard almost at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.
 
Even in that close , perpetually filled with the of knives, plates, cans, voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme’s mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.
 
“What yer laughing at, guv’nor?” asked one wondering labourer from the docks.
 
“At myself,” answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.
 
“Pull yourself together,” said the Professor, “or you’ll get . Have some more beer. I’ll join you.”
 
“You haven’t drunk your milk,” said Syme.
 
“My milk!” said the other, in tones of and unfathomable contempt, “my milk! Do you think I’d look at the beastly stuff when I’m out of sight of the ? We’re all in this room, though perhaps,” he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, “not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I’ll finish it right enough!” and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.
 
Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.
 
“I understand now,” he cried; “of course, you’re not an old man at all.”
 
“I can’t take my face off here,” replied Professor de Worms. “It’s rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I’m an old man, that’s not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday.”
 
“Yes, but I mean,” said Syme impatiently, “there’s nothing the matter with you.”
 
“Yes,” answered the other dispassionately. “I am subject to colds.”
 
Syme’s laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights. But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.
 
The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.
 
“Did you know,” he asked, “that that man Gogol was one of us?”
 
“I? No, I didn’t know it,” answered Syme in some surprise. “But didn’t you?”
 
“I knew no more than the dead,” replied the man who called himself de Worms. “I thought the President was talking about me, and I in my boots.”
 
“And I thought he was talking about me,” said Syme, with his rather reckless laughter. “I had my hand on my revolver all the time.”
 
“So had I,” said the Professor grimly; “so had Gogol evidently.”
 
Syme struck the table with an .
 
“Why, there were three of us there!” he cried. “Three out of seven is a fighting number. If we had only known that we were three!”
 
The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.
 
“We were three,” he said. “If we had been three hundred we could still have done nothing.”
 
“Not if we were three hundred against four?” asked Syme, rather .
 
“No,” said the Professor with sobriety, “not if we were three hundred against Sunday.”
 
And the name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips. The face of the unforgettable President sprang into his mind as startling as a coloured photograph, and he remarked this difference between Sunday and all his satellites, that their faces, however fierce or , became gradually by memory like other human faces, whereas Sunday’s seemed almost to grow more actual during absence, as if a man’s painted portrait should slowly come alive.
 
They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme’s speech came with a rush, like the sudden of .
 
“Professor,” he cried, “it is intolerable. Are you afraid of this man?”
 
The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.
 
“Yes, I am,” he said mildly. “So are you.”
 
Syme was dumb for an instant. Then he rose to his feet , like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.
 
“Yes,” he said in a voice indescribable, “you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.”
 
“How?” asked the staring Professor. “Why?”
 
“Because I am afraid of him,” said Syme; “and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.”
 
De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder. He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of exaltation—
 
“Who would to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless—like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last to the of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said, ‘I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike .’ So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.”
 
The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.
 
“Sunday is a fixed star,” he said.
 
“You shall see him a falling star,” said Syme, and put on his hat.
 
The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.
 
“Have you any idea,” he asked, with a sort of bewilderment, “exactly where you are going?”
 
“Yes,” replied Syme shortly, “I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris.”
 
“Have you any conception how?” inquired the other.
 
“No,” said Syme with equal decision.
 
“You remember, of course,” resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard............