“These are days of publicity,” explained the concierge. “Men are influenced much by the printed word. Already our bulletins flood the country. On the day of the Carnival the city will flame with them, printed in red. They will appear, as if by magic power, everywhere.”
“A call to arms?”
“A call to liberty,” evaded the concierge.
Not in months had he taken such pleasure in a recruit. He swaggered about the room, recounting in boastful tones his influence with the Committee of Ten.
“And with reason,” he boasted, pausing before the old soldier. “I have served them well; here in this house is sufficient ammunition to fight a great battle. You, now, you know something of ammunition. You have lived here for a long time. Yet no portion of this house has been closed to you. Where, at a guess, is it concealed?”
“It is in this house?”
“So I tell you. Now, where?”
“In the cellar, perhaps.”
“Come, I will show you.” He led old Adelbert by the elbow to a window overlooking the yard. Just such an enclosure as each of the neighboring houses possessed, and surrounded by a high fence. Here was a rabbit hutch, built of old boards, and familiar enough to the veteran’s eyes; and a dovecote, which loomed now but a deeper shadow among shadows.
“Carrier-pigeons,” explained the concierge. “You have seen them often, but you suspected nothing, eh? They are my telegraph. Now, look again, comrade. What else?”