“You don’t mean to say,” I observed, airily, “that extreme revolutionists have ever been actively assisted by the infatuation of such people?”

“I did not mean exactly that by what I said just now.  I generalized.  But since you ask me, I may tell you that such help has been given to revolutionary activities, more or less consciously, in various countries.  And even in this country.”

“Impossible!” I protested with firmness.  “We don’t play with fire to that extent.”

“And yet you can better afford it than others, perhaps.  But let me observe that most women, if not always ready to play with fire, are generally eager to play with a loose spark or so.”

“Is this a joke?” I asked, smiling.

“If it is, I am not aware of it,” he said, woodenly.  “I was thinking of an instance.  Oh! mild enough in a way . . .”

I became all expectation at this.  I had tried many times to approach him on his underground side, so to speak.  The very word had been pronounced between us.  But he had always met me with his impenetrable calm.

“And at the same time,” Mr. X continued, “it will give you a notion of the difficulties that may arise in what you are pleased to call underground work.  It is sometimes difficult to deal with them.  Of course there is no hierarchy amongst the affiliated.  No rigid system.”

My surprise was great, but short-lived.  Clearly, amongst extreme anarchists there could be no hierarchy; nothing in the nature of a law of precedence.  The idea of anarchy ruling among anarchists was comforting, too.  It could not possibly make for efficiency.

Mr. X startled me by asking, abruptly, “You know Hermione Street?”

I nodded doubtful assent.  Hermione Street has been, within the last three years, improved out of any man’s knowledge.  The name exists still, but not one brick or stone of the old Hermione Street is left now.  It was the old street he meant, for he said: 

“There was a row of two-storied brick houses on the left, with their backs against the wing of a great public building—­you remember.  Would it surprise you very much to hear that one of these houses was for a time the centre of anarchist propaganda and of what you would call underground action?”

“Not at all,” I declared.  Hermione Street had never been particularly respectable, as I remembered it.

“The house was the property of a distinguished government official,” he added, sipping his champagne.

“Oh, indeed!” I said, this time not believing a word of it.

“Of course he was not living there,” Mr. X continued.  “But from ten till four he sat next door to it, the dear man, in his well-appointed private room in the wing of the public building I’ve mentioned.  To be strictly accurate, I must explain that the house in Hermione Street did not really belong to him.  It belonged to his grown-up children—­a daughter and a son.  The girl, a fine figure,