a lull in the hubbub, and then, with a cynical laugh, threw out a challenge which he had obviously been saving.
"How do we know you're speaking in good faith? For all anybody knows to the contrary, you might be a spy in the employ of a government that has something to gain by your kind of propaganda, preached outside its own boundaries. Are you afraid to show your papers?"
Although the speaker was not popular, and although in its present mood the confraternity would have taken Paul's side against anyone, an undercurrent of curiosity awaited with interest the fate of the challenge.
Paul had no intention of gratifying this curiosity, nor of evading the challenge.
"I make a secret of my nationality out of sheer consistency," he replied quietly. "To my way of thinking, the fact that nobody here can say for a certainty what country produced me is a vindication, in a small way, of my thesis. If everybody had tried to ignore national prejudices as consistently as I have done, we should find ourselves able to co-operate in ways which are now infeasible. . . . I'm not afraid to show my papers—the suggestion is silly. But I don't mind telling you that I've served a term in prison for the views I've been advocating, if you need any proof of my good faith."
A few short years ago he would have been tempted to give a cynical flourish to this final piece of information. But he had outgrown his cynicism.
There was a stir of renewed interest, and Paul went on to link up his remarks, bringing the audience again under his sway. Gradually his words dwindled. There was a singing in his ears which drowned the sound of his voice. He was suddenly oppressed by the thick smoke that filled the room, and reached towards the window, which someone had closed as the night air grew colder. Paul knew now that he had shot his bolt. The strange buoyancy he had experienced earlier in the evening had
