Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure to score.”

“That depends on how it turns out.”

“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.’”

“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

“‘Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. “In future you shall shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”

“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.

“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are your wages.” He handed each of them a shilling. “Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time.”

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is organization.”

“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?” I asked.

“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!”

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’s unresponsive hand, “congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.”

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive face.

“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.

“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”

The great social idea, said Sir Joshua, was the SOCIAL equality of man. No, said Gerald, the idea was, that every man was fit for his own little bit of a task—let him do that, and then please himself. The unifying principle was the work in hand. Only work, the business of production, held men together. It was mechanical, but then society WAS a mechanism. Apart from work they were isolated, free to do as they liked.

‘Oh!’ cried Gudrun. ‘Then we shan’t have names any more—we shall be like the Germans, nothing but Herr Obermeister and Herr Untermeister. I can imagine it—“I am Mrs Colliery–Manager Crich—I am Mrs Member–of–Parliament Roddice. I am Miss Art–Teacher Brangwen.” Very pretty that.’

‘Things would work very much better, Miss Art–Teacher Brangwen,’ said Gerald.

‘What things, Mr Colliery–Manager Crich? The relation between you and me, PAR EXEMPLE?’

‘Yes, for example,’ cried the Italian. ‘That which is between men and women—!’

‘That is non–social,’ said Birkin, sarcastically.

‘Exactly,’ said Gerald. ‘Between me and a woman, the social question does not enter. It is my own affair.’

‘A ten–pound note on it,’ said Birkin.

‘You don’t admit that a woman is a social being?’ asked Ursula of Gerald.

‘She is both,’ said Gerald. ‘She is a social being, as far as society is concerned. But for her own private self, she is a free agent, it is her own affair, what she does.’

‘But won’t it be rather difficult to arrange the two halves?’ asked Ursula.

‘Oh no,’ replied Gerald. ‘They arrange themselves naturally—we see it now, everywhere.’

‘Don’t you laugh so pleasantly till you’re out of the wood,’ said Birkin.

Gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation.

‘Was I laughing?’ he said.

‘IF,’ said Hermione at last, ‘we could only realise, that in the SPIRIT we are all one, all equal in the spirit, all brothers there—the rest wouldn’t matter, there would be no more of this carping and envy and this struggle for power, which destroys, only destroys.’

This speech was received in silence, and almost immediately the party rose from the table. But when the others had gone, Birkin turned round in bitter declamation, saying:

‘It is just the opposite, just the contrary, Hermione. We are all different and unequal in spirit—it is only the SOCIAL differences that are based on accidental material conditions. We are all abstractly or mathematically equal, if you like. Every man has hunger and thirst, two eyes, one nose and two legs. We’re all the same in point of number. But spiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality nor inequality counts. It is upon these two bits of knowledge that you must found a state. Your democracy is an absolute lie—your brotherhood of man is a pure falsity, if you apply it further than the mathematical abstraction. We all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we all want to ride in motor–cars—therein lies the beginning and the end of the brotherhood of man. But no equality.