“I don’t know,” said Nigel; “I’m no chemist. Oh! Talking of chemists, we must see if we can find that chap Harold Sage here. I’d like to meet him.”
“Well, it’s so difficult. They never said what he was like. Perhaps — er— ” Angela turned towards Miss Banks. “Perhaps you could help us. There’s a gentleman here who knows a friend of ours.” She wondered if this was risky. “His name’s Harold Sage. He’s a chemist, and we thought if we could see him— ”
The young man with the blond curls turned round and flashed a golden smile at her.
“Pardon,” he fluted throatily. “That won’t be very difficult. May neem’s Hawrold Seege.”
CHAPTER XIII
Surprising Antics of a Chemist
Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours.
To say that Nigel and Angela were flabbergasted by this announcement is to give not the slightest indication of their derangement. Their mouths fell open and their eyes protruded. Their stomachs, as the saying is, turned over. Mr. Sage continued the while to smile falsely upon them. It seemed as if they took at least three minutes to recover. Actually about five seconds elapsed before Angela, in a small voice that she did not recognise, said:
“Oh — fancy! What fun!”
“Oh,” echoed Nigel, “fancy! What luck! Yes.”
“Yes,” said Angela.
“I thought I heard someone taking my name in vain,” continued Mr. Sage playfully. It would be tedious to attempt a phonetic reproduction of Mr. Sage’s utterances. Enough to say that they were genteel to a fantastic degree. “Aye thot Aye heeard somewon teeking may neem in veen,” may give some idea of his rendering of the above sentence. Let it go at that.
“I was just going to make you known to each other,” said Nurse Banks. So great was their dilemma they had actually forgotten Nurse Banks.
Mr. Sage cast a peculiar reluctant glance upon her and then turned to his quarry. “And who,” he asked gaily, “is the mutual friend?”
Frantic alternatives chased each other through Angela’s and Nigel’s brain. Suppose they risked naming Marcus Barker again — he of the vermilion pamphlet. He had a shop. He was in prison. That was all they knew of Comrade Barker. Suppose—
Nigel drew a deep breath and leant forward.
“It is— ” he began.
“Comrades!” shouted a terrific voice. “We will commence by singing the Internationale.”
They turned, startled, to the platform. A gigantic bearded man, wearing a Russian blouse, confronted the audience. Comrade Kakaroff had arrived.
The comrades, led by the platform, instantly burst into a deafening rumpus. Nigel and Angela, pink with relief, made grimaces indicative of thwarted communication at Mr. Sage, who made a suitable face in return and then stood to attention and, with a piercing head-note, cut into the Internationale.
When they talked the affair over afterwards with Inspector Alleyn they could not remember one utterance of Comrade Kakaroff during the first half of his speech. He was a large Slav with a beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice rose to an emotional bellow they managed to exchange a panicky whisper.
“Shall we slip away?”
“We can’t. Not now.”
“Afterwards?”
“Yes — perhaps too fishy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ssh! I’m going to—”
“Ssh!”
They glared at each other. To his horror, Nigel saw that Angela was about to get the giggles. He frowned at her majestically and then folded his arms and stared, with an air of interest, at Comrade Kakaroff. This unfortunately struck Angela, who was no doubt hysterical, as being intolerably funny. Her blood ran cold, her heart sank, she was panic-stricken, but she felt she must laugh.
“Shut up,” breathed Nigel out of the corner of his mouth. He was foolish enough to kick her. Her chair quivered. She looked round wildly to the four corners of the room. In the fourth corner, between a diagonal vista of rapt faces, she saw someone who watched her. It was the man to whom Alleyn had spoken when they first arrived. Her throat quivered no longer. It went dry. Suddenly nothing seemed funny. Perhaps no one had noticed her. Banks, uttering an occasional “Hear! hear!” in a tone of magisterial approval, gazed only at Nicholas Kakaroff. Mr. Sage’s back was towards them. Angela was herself again and greatly ashamed. She began to think coherently and presently she formed a plan, Alleyn had talked at some length about Ruth O’Callaghan. He had a vivid trick of description and Angela felt she knew exactly what Miss O’Callaghan was like.
Suppose—? She stared like an attentive angel at Comrade Kakaroff and as she stared she made up her mind. As if in echo of her thoughts, she suddenly became aware of his utterances.
“The death of the late Home Secretary — Derek O’Callaghan,” boomed Comrade Kakaroff. Jerked out of their unhappy meditation, they began to listen with a will.
“—not for us the sickly sentiment of an effete and decadent civilisation. Not for us the disgusting tears of the wage-slave hypocrite. It was in a good hour that man died. Had he lived he would have worked us great evil. He was struck down with the words of tyranny on his lips. I say it was in a good hour he died. We know it. Let us boldly declare it. He was the enemy of the people, a festering sore that drained the vitality of the proletariat. Listen to me, all of you. If he was deliberately exterminated and I knew the man who had done it, I would greet that man with the outstretched hand of brotherhood. I would hail that man as — Comrade.”
He sat down amidst loud noises of encouragement. Mr. Sage had sprung excitedly to his feet.
“Comrade!” he shouted excitedly. It was as if he had touched a spring. The age-old yeast of mob-hysteria was at work. Half of them were on their feet yelling. Miss Banks cast down her knitting and made curious staccato gestures with her hands. “Up, the anarchists!” someone screamed behind them. The uproar lasted for some minutes while Kakaroff gazed intently at his work. Then Comrade Robinson walked to the edge of the platform and held up his hands. It was not until the Russian, half contemptuously, had joined him that the din died away.
“Friends,” said Kakaroff, “have patience. It will not be for long. In the meantime — be patient. It is with difficulty we manage to hold these meetings. Let us not arouse too much suspicion in the brilliant brains of those uniformed automatons who guard the interests of the capitalist — our wonderful police.”
The comrades made merry. Angela distinctly heard the rare laugh of Inspector Alleyn. The meeting broke up after a brief word from Comrade Robinson about standing subscriptions. Mr. Sage, a winning smile upon his face, turned eagerly towards them.
“Magnificent, wasn’t it?” he cried.
“Marvellous!”
“Wonderful!”
“And now,” continued Mr. Sage, looking admiringly upon Angela, “please tell me-who is our mutual friend?”
“Well, she’s not exactly a close friend,” said Angela, “although we both like her ever so much.” She glanced round her and leant forward. Mr. Sage gallantly inclined his curls towards her.
“Miss Ruth O’Callaghan,” said Angela, just loud enough for Nigel to hear. He instantly supposed she had gone crazy.
Mr. Sage must have tilted his chair too far backwards, for he suddenly clutched at the air in a very singular manner. His feet shot upwards and the next instant he was decanted over their feet.
“Murder!” ejaculated Nigel, and hurriedly bent over him. Mr. Sage fought him off with great violence, and after a galvanic struggle, regained his feet.
“I say,” said Angela, remembering her new voice, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself. I’m ever so sorry.”