It was Paul Fiske who had formed their minds, who had put the great arguments into their brains, who had armed them from head to foot with potent reasonings.

Four very ordinary men, of varying types, sincere men, all of plebeian extraction, all with their faults, yet all united in one purpose, were animated by that same fire of excitement.

They hung over the table towards her.

She might have been the croupier and they the gamblers who had thrown upon the table their last stake.
"In Julian Orden's rooms," she said, "I found a letter from the editor of the British Review, warning him that his anonymity could not be preserved much longer--that before many weeks had passed the world would know that he was Paul Fiske.

Here is the letter." She passed it around.