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prize-fighter had it not been deadened by the enveloping folds of the dust-sheet; it was still powerful enough to knock him clear of the stairs to a point where he cannoned into the scampering Miriam, sending her crashing against the door of the store room. After that was the wildest confusion, the intruder heaving under the sheet and the four of them arriving in a body at the foot of the stairs and bolting headlong down the corridor to the staff entrance where Meadowes stood, mouth agape and hands upraised to ward off what must have seemed to him a concerted charge. He was swept aside, steel-rimmed spectacles flying one way, peaked cap another, and then they were clear and running through the crowd in the direction of Drury Lane.
    There was no immediate pursuit, or not so far as a glance over his shoulder could tell him as they doubled two more corners before arriving at the eastern arcade of Covent Garden, deserted now but shin deep in litter and baskets and barricaded with costers’ barrows half seen under their tarpaulins. He stopped then, catching Soper by the arm and saying, breathlessly, “Into the market— a dozen places to hide!” and they both scrambled over the barrows, pulling the girls after them and found cover in the semi-darkness of the grilled caves beyond.
    Nobody said anything for a moment. The girl Miriam was grimacing with pain, and holding her right hand to her shoulder where it had come into violent contact with the store room door. Soper was spent but otherwise intact. The white of Romayne’s petticoat showed through a rent in her skirt and she was already fumbling in her reticule for safety-pins. Then Soper said, soberly, “My God! That was a close shave! Who was he, Mr. Swann?”
    “How would I know? A plain-clothes detective maybe, keeping a lookout for something like this. He seemed to pinpoint the place at a glance.”
    Soper’s eyes widened as he said, “You mean somebody peached? Someone on the committee? He was stationed there waiting for us?”
    The narrowness of their escape put an edge on Giles’s tongue. “I don’t think anything of the kind. He was checking the route and saw something unusual. You and your leaflets probably. Why the devil didn’t you wait for my signal like we arranged?”
    “We had trouble getting the window open. The frame stuck at less than an inch.” This from the girl, still massaging her bruised shoulder.
    “But you actually threw leaflets. I saw some go down.”
    “We broke the glass,” Soper said. “We had to, there was no other way.”
    Giles growled, “Well, at least we know how he spotted us. Not that it matters.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Swann. We muffed it. Most of the leaflets are still up there.”
    Giles replied, sourly, “You don’t fancy going back to finish the job?”
    Romayne said, sharply, “That’s not fair, Giles! What else could they do in the circumstances? At least some leaflets went out.”
    The girl Miriam began to cry, quietly and half-heartedly—a child warned that she will be given something to cry about if she doesn’t watch out. Giles was suddenly aware of the overpowering might of the forces ranged against them, ranged against everybody in their situation, including the cheering crowds who would soon go home, sun-tired and satisfied with their brief vision of world domination, but expected to make it last until the next free show vouchsafed by the elite. A coronation, a royal wedding, or a Lord Mayor’s Show.
    He said, more to himself than the others, “It’s no use… these demonstrations… leaflets, placards, with everyone involved risking their jobs. There must be another way, a way that doesn’t put everyone at risk.” He looked directly at Soper. “You and Miriam would have been recognised by the janitor. You daren’t go back to Beckwith and Lowenstein’s now.”
    “I don’t have to. I’ve given notice. I told the floor manager I was moving to another billet up north. I was paid up last