THE ASTONISHING ADVENTURE OF
JANE SMITH
BY
PATRICIA WENTWORTH
Author of
“A Marriage Under the Terror,” etc.
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1923
By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(Incorporated)
Printed in the United States of America
THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
THE ASTONISHING ADVENTURE OF JANE SMITH
CHAPTER I
The dining-room of Molloy’s flat had not been builtto receive twenty-five guests, but the Delegatesof twenty-five affiliated Organisations had beencrowded into it. The unshaded electric light glareddown upon men of many types and nationalities.It did not flatter them.
The air was heavy with the smoke of bad tobaccoand the fumes of a very indifferent gas fire. Therewas a table in the middle of the room, and some dozenof the men were seated at it. The rest stood in groups,or leaned against the walls.
Of the four who formed the Inner Council threewere present. Most of the Delegates had expectedthat the head of The Council, the head of the FederatedOrganisations, that mysterious Number Onewhom they all knew by reputation and yet hadnever seen in the flesh, would be present in personto take the chair. But the Delegates who had entertainedthis expectation were doomed to disappointment.Once again Number One’s authority had beendelegated to the other three members of The Council.Of these, Number Three was Molloy, the big, handsomeIrishman who rented the flat. He sat facing thedoor, a fine figure of a man in the late forties. NumberTwo leaned forward over the fire, warming his hands,his pale, intellectual face expressionless, his eyesveiled. Belcovitch, who was Number Four, was onhis feet speaking. They were large, bony feet, in bootswhich had most noticeably not been made for him.He spoke fluently, but with a heavy foreign accent.
“Propaganda,” he said, and laughed; really hehad a very unpleasant laugh—“propaganda is whatyou call rot, rubbish, damn nonsense. What elsehave we been about for years—no, generations—andwhere are we to-day?”
Number Two drew his chair closer to the fire withan impatient jerk. Number Four’s oratory bored himstiff. The room was cold. This gas fire was like allgas fires. He pulled his fur coat together and spokesharply:
“Molloy, this room’s most infernally cold, andwhere in the world does the draught come from?”
“Propaganda is dead,” said Number Four. Helooked over his shoulder with dislike at Number Two,and mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief.Molloy, just opposite him, turned a little and laughed.
“You bring the cold with you, Number Two,” hesaid. “Here’s Number Four as hot as his own speeches.You’ve got all the fire, and the door’s shut, and ascreen in front of it, so what more do you want?”
“Propaganda is dead,” repeated Number Four. Hestood with his back to the door. Only the top panelof it showed above the black screen which had been