The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, all clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly carpeted floor was soundless.
Fandor stared at these strange figures.
Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing Fandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms crossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke:
"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every means in your power! Do you swear it still?"
The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:
"We swear it!"
"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"
"We are prepared."
The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent their heads as he apostrophised them:
"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!"