The Adventure of the Radical Candidate
YOY MAY picture me driving that forty-horse-power car for all she was worth over the crisp moor roads on that shining May morning; glancing back at first over my shoulder and looking anxiously to the next turning; then driving with a vague eye, just wide enough awake to keep on the highway. For I was thinking desperately of what I had found in Scudder's pocket-book.
The little man had told me a pack of lies. All his yarns about the Balkans and the Jew-anarchists and the Foreign Office conference were eye-wash, and so was Karolides. And yet not quite, as you shall hear. I had staked everything on my belief in his story and had been let down; here was his book telling me a different tale, and instead of being once-bit-twice-shy, I believed it absolutely. Why? I don't know.
It rang desperately true, and the first yarn, if you understand me, had been in a queer way true also in spirit. The fifteenth day of June was going to be a day