CHAPTER XIVIt was grand to see my half-dozen sub rosa crusaders gathered together again, sitting expectantly on sofas and chairs in Alec’s room, watching me with friendship and love. What a tonic those comradely faces were! I drank a silent, sentimental toast to them, and began my yarn.
First I told them of Arold Smiff, the cheap, crooked, gin-soaked little man, who had taken his last bath in 1922; the man who could see the usurpers as well as I could. That roused them to gleeful vociferance, which I squashed with a bark. “Quiet, will you! I’m half starved—haven’t had a bite since breakfast. I want to get this done, so I can go and eat a good dinner.
“You know that when I left you I could see just one dismal possibility—a long campaign of slaughter, slaughter, slaughter. But when I met A
