“I thought he was a landlord.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’s as nearly as possible the exact reverse.”
“Are you an anarchist too?”
“No, I’m not,” said Dr. O’Grady, “nor is Patsy Devlin. So far we haven’t been asked to join the organization. We’re simply prisoners. We’ve been captured by the brotherhood. But we had sense enough to wear our ordinary clothes. You may think it’s the proper thing to go about in nothing but your shirt because you happen to be in the house of an anarchist, but I can tell you——”
Mr. Sanders, who still lay on the floor, groaned dismally.
“Loose that fellow, Patsy,” said the doctor. “He appears to be in pain of some sort.”
“Anarchists!” said Mr. Dick. “Good heavens! How frightful! My wife! My poor wife!”
“She’ll be all right,” said the doctor. “The Emperor won’t do her any harm. He’s a thorough gentleman in every way, a chivalrous gentleman, and I’m perfectly certain he wouldn’t ill-treat a woman. You may rely on it that she’ll be made quite comfortable. She was with you, I suppose. If so, I don’t in the least wonder that you were run in. The Emperor has frightfully strict, old-fashioned ideas about lots of things. He objects to cards, for instance, as demoralizing. I’m sure that mixed bathing would simply horrify him. There’s no greater mistake than to think that just because a man’s an anarchist, you can do what you like without shocking him. You can’t. The Emperor has his prejudices just like the rest of us.”
Patsy Devlin set Mr. Sanders on his feet and rubbed him down carefully. The poor man seemed dazed and bewildered.