For the first half of his meal he sat alone at his table, then the seat opposite him was taken by one of the swarthy bearded foreigners with which the place abounded. He was a man of early middle age, with a mop of black hair slightly tinged with grey, overhanging eyebrows, and a general air of poverty and Bohemianism. He ate hungrily, as though such good food did not often come his way, and as he ate his eyes roamed stealthily round the room. Lessing decided that he was in search of a confederate—the man’s appearance suggested the word—and that he was puzzled and alarmed by the absence of what he sought. He decided to dally with his own meal so as to see this thing out. Many a time he had longed for an opportunity of adventure. Now it might be at hand. If the two men met, he would leave the restaurant in their wake and track them through the narrow streets! He recalled written scenes concerning open doorways, fights on staircases, and the like, and thrilled with anticipation.
Throughout his meal the Bearded One continued his scrutiny, and Lessing noticed that his glance lingered tentatively on one or two men present as though uncertain of their identity. It was not entirely by appearance, then, that he could distinguish his confederate! There was evidently a sign which would expose one to the other, and then suddenly, with his eyes fixed on a diner at an adjacent table, the Bearded One raised his knife, and with a clean, incisive movement swept the salt from his plate on to the table.
The other diner ate on undisturbed, but an electric shock of excitement tingled through Lessing’s veins. More than once before he had observed this deliberate spilling of the salt on the round-topped tables of that restaurant, so often, indeed, that he had made sure in his own mind that it was in the nature of a signal from one member of a fraternity to another. The spilling of the salt—symbol from all ages of disaster, a meet signal indeed for these dark and dangerous men!
With an impulse which crystallised the longings of years, Lessing attracted his companion’s attention by a hasty movement, and then, lifting high his knife, swept his own salt on to the cloth so that the white dust scattered and mingled with the dust already spread.
The effect was instantaneous. The swarthy face bent forward to meet his own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word:
“Brother!”
“Brother!” whispered Lessing in return. His pulses were racing, but he held himself resolutely in hand. A false move might spoil all. He must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. He sat in an attitude of attention while the Bearded One crouched over the table, speaking in baited tones. His accent was rather Jewish than foreign, a thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction.
“I have been waiting. The time is short. I must be hurrying on. There are many places where I must carry the news!” His voice sank to an almost unhearable depth. “It is for to-night!”
“To-night!” gasped Lessing in return. His real dismay at the nearness of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and it appeared that surprise was expected.
“To-night! To-night! The chief has given the order. It is his way to make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours’ notice. It is safer so. He has a wise head. All is arranged, and to-morrow, by this time to-morrow—” His lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. “London, the city of the oppressors—what will be left of the great London then? Nothing but a wilderness of fire and ruin!”