The girl, for she appeared to be only two or three and twenty, looked at him in a puzzled kind of way.
"No," she replied, casting her eyes in that direction; "I see no one. There is no one there."
"Not a beautiful woman? She is rather shadowy, but she has wonderful eyes."
"No," she replied wonderingly.
"Then I suppose I was mistaken. You are Olga, aren't you?"
"Yes; I am Olga."
"And you made that wonderful speech?"
"Was it wonderful?" and she laughed half sadly, half gaily.
Suddenly the spell, or whatever it was, left him. He was Dick Faversham again—keen, alert, critical. He realised where he was, too. He had accompanied Mr. John Brown to this place, and he had listened to words which were revolutionary. If they were translated into action, all law and order as he now understood them would cease to be.
Around him, too, chattering incessantly, was a number of long-haired, wild-eyed men. They were discussing the speech to which they had just listened; they were debating the new opportunities which the times had created.