THE ASTONISHING ADVENTURE OF
JANE SMITH
BY
PATRICIA WENTWORTH
Author of
“A Marriage Under the Terror,” etc.
[Illustration: Publisher logo]
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 built to receive
twenty-five guests, but the Delegates of twenty-five affiliated
Organisations had been crowded into it. The unshaded electric light
glared down upon men of many types and nationalities. It did not flatter
them.
The air was heavy with the smoke of bad tobacco and the fumes of a very
indifferent gas fire. There was a table in the middle of the room, and
some dozen of the men were seated at it. The rest stood in groups, or
leaned against the walls.
Of the four who formed the Inner Council three were present. Most of the
Delegates had expected that the head of The Council, the head of the
Federated Organisations, that mysterious Number One whom they all knew
by reputation and yet had never seen in the flesh, would be present in
person to take the chair. But the Delegates who had entertained this
expectation were doomed to disappointment. Once again Number One’s
authority had been delegated to the other three members of The Council.
Of these, Number Three was Molloy, the big, handsome Irishman who rented
the flat. He sat facing the door, a fine figure of a man in the late
forties. Number Two leaned forward over the fire, warming his hands, his
pale, intellectual face expressionless, his eyes veiled. Belcovitch, who
was Number Four, was on his feet speaking. They were large, bony feet,
in boots which had most noticeably not been made for him. He spoke
fluently, but with a heavy foreign accent.
“Propaganda,” he said, and laughed; really he had a very unpleasant
laugh—“propaganda is what you call rot, rubbish, damn nonsense. What
else have we been about for years—no, generations—and where are we
to-day?”
Number Two drew his chair closer to the fire with an impatient jerk.
Number Four’s oratory bored him stiff. The room was cold. This gas fire
was like all gas fires. He pulled his fur coat together and spoke
sharply:
“Molloy, this room’s most infernally cold, and where in the world does
the draught come from?”
“Propaganda is dead,” said Number Four. He looked 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,” he said. “Here’s Number Four
as hot as his own speeches. You’ve got all the fire, and the door’s
shut, and a screen in front of it, so what more do you want?”
“Propaganda is dead,” repeated Number Four. He stood with his back to
the door. Only the top panel of it showed above the black screen which
had been drawn across it. The screen had four leaves. On each leaf a
golden stork on one leg contemplated a golden water-lily. The light
shone on the golden birds and the golden flowers.
Number Four thrust his handkerchief back into his pocket, and rapped
sharply on the table. It was covered with a red cloth which had seen
better days. Number Fourteen had upset the ink only a few moments
before, and a greenish-purple patch was still spreading amidst the
crimson.
Belcovitch leaned forward, both his hands on the table, his raucous
voice brought to a dead level. “Instead of propaganda, what?” he said.
“Instead of building here, teaching there, what? That is what I’m here
to-night to tell you. To-morrow you all go to your own places, each to
his post; but before you go, I am authorised to prepare you for what is
to come. It will not be to-day, but it may be to-morrow, or it may not
be for many to-morrows yet. One final stage is lacking, but in
essentials The Process is complete. Propaganda is dead, because we no
longer need propaganda. Comrades”—his voice sank a little—“there are
enough of us. Every city in the world has its quota. What The Process
will effect”—he paused, looked round, caught Number Two’s slightly
sardonic expression, and struck the table with his open hand—“what The
Process will effect is this,” he cried—“in one word, Annihilation of the
whole human race! Only our organisation will be left.”
“Now what I am instructed to tell you is this,”—he spoke evenly,
swiftly, statement following statement—never had the attention of an
audience been so fully his; and then suddenly the thread was broken.
With a loud grating sound, Number Fifteen, sitting next to Molloy,
pushed his chair back, and sprang to his feet.
“The door!” he shouted. “The door!” Every man in the room looked where
Fifteen was looking. Above the water-lilies and the storks, where the
top panel of the door had shown, there was a dark, empty space. The door
was open.
Number Four whipped out a revolver and dragged the screen away. The door
was open, and in the doorway stood a girl in her nightdress. Her hands
were stretched out, as if she were feeling her way. Her eyes, of a
greenish hazel in colour, were widely opened, and had a dazed
expression. Her brown hair hung in two neat plaits. Her feet were bare.
Molloy pushed forward quickly.
“Well, there, if that wasn’t the start of our lives,” he said, “and no
reason for it when all’s said and done. It’s my daughter, Renata,
comrades, and she’s walking in her sleep. Now I’ll just take her back to
her room and be with you again.”
“A minute, I think, Molloy,” said Number Two. He got up slowly out of
his chair, and came across to where the girl stood motionless, blinking
at the light. “I _said_ there was a most infernal draught. Will you come
in, Miss Molloy?” he added politely, and took the girl by the hand. She
yielded to his touch, and came into the room, shivering a little. Some
one shut the door. Molloy, shrugging his shoulders, pulled the crimson
cloth from the table and wrapped it about his daughter. The ink-soaked
patch came upon her bare shoulder, and she cried out, cast a wild look
at the strange and terrifying faces about her, and burst into a flood of
tears.
Molloy, standing behind her, looked around as she had looked, and his
face darkened. Number Four had his back against the door, and his
revolver in his hand. There was only one face in the whole circle that
was not stamped with suspicion and fear, and behind the fear and the
suspicion there was something icy, something ruthless. Number Two, with
a slightly bored expression, was feeling in his waistcoat pocket. He
produced a small glass bottle, extracted from it a tiny pellet, and
proceeded to dissolve it in the glass of water which had stood neglected
at Number Four’s right hand.
“Now, Miss Molloy,” he said, but Molloy caught him by the wrist.
“What the devil——” he stammered, and Number Two laughed.
“My dear Molloy,” he said, “how crude! You might know me better than
that.”
He held the glass to Renata’s lips, and she took it and drank. When she
had set down the glass, she felt her way to a chair and leaned back with
closed eyes. The room seemed to whirl about her. A confusion of sound
was in her ears, loud, angry, with sentences that came and went. “If she
heard,”—then another—“How long was she there? Some one must have seen
the door open.”
“Who did, then?” Then in the harshest voice of all, “I don’t care if
she’s Molloy’s daughter fifty times over, if she heard what Four said
about The Process, she must go.” Go where?
There was something cold and wet touching her shoulder. The cold seemed
to spread all over her. Now her father was speaking. She had never heard
his voice quite like that before. And now the man in the fur coat, the
one who had given her the glass of water:
“Yes, certainly, elimination if it is necessary. We’re all agreed about
that. But let us make sure.” His voice had quite a gentle sound, but
Renata’s heart began to beat with great thuds.
“Miss Molloy,”—he was speaking to her now, and she opened her eyes and
looked at him. His face was of a clear, even pallor. His eyes, light
blue and without noticeable lashes, looked straight into hers. The veil
was gone from them. They held a terrifying intelligence.
Renata sat up. The crowd of men had cleared away. She, and her father,
and the man in the fur coat were in an angle formed by the table and the
black screen, which had been drawn close around them. Her father sat
between her and the fire. His head was turned away, and he drummed
incessantly on the table with the fingers of his right hand. Beyond the
screen Renata could hear movements, and it came to her that the other
men were there, waiting. The man in the fur coat spoke to her again. His
voice was pleasant and cultivated, his manner reassuring.
“You are better now? Please don’t be frightened. I am a doctor; your
father will tell you that. Being wakened suddenly like that gave you a
shock, but you are better now.”
“Yes,” said Renata. She wished that her heart would stop beating so
hard, and she wished that the man in the fur coat would stop looking at
her.
“Now, Miss Renata, I am your doctor, you know, and I want you to answer
just a few questions. You have walked in your sleep before?”
“Yes,” said Renata—“oh yes.”
“Often?”
“Yes.”
“What was the first time?”
“I think—I think I was five years old. They found me in the garden.”
Molloy let out a great breath of relief. If she had forgotten, if her
account had differed from his—well, well, their luck was in.
There was a whispering from behind the screen. Number Two frowned.
“And the last time?”
“It was at school. I walked into another dormitory and frightened the
girls.”
The man in the fur coat nodded. “So your father said.” And for a moment
Molloy stared over his shoulder at him. “And to-night? Do you dream on
these occasions?”
Renata was reassured. Every moment it was more like an ordinary visit to
a doctor. She had been asked all these questions so often. Her voice no
longer trembled as she answered. “Yes, I dream. I walk in my sleep
because of the dream; now to-night....”
“Yes, to-night?”
“I dreamt I was back at school, and I thought I heard talking in the
next dormitory. You know we are not allowed to talk, and I am—I mean I
was a prefect. So I got up, and went to see what was the matter, and
some one pulled the screen away, and there was such a light, and such a
noise.” She put out a shaking hand, and Number Two patted it kindly.
“Very startling for you,” he said. “So you opened the door and came in
and heard us all talking. Can you tell me what was being said?” His hand
was on Renata’s wrist, and he felt the pulses leap. She spoke a shade
too quickly:
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps I can help you. Your father, you know, travels for a firm of
chemists, a firm in which I and my friends are also interested. We were
discussing a new aniline dye which, we hope, will capture the markets of
the world. Now did you hear that word—aniline—or anything like it? You
see I want to find out just what woke you. What tiresome questions we
doctors ask, don’t we?”
He smiled, and Renata tried to collect her thoughts. They were in great
confusion.
Aniline—annihilate—the two words kept coming and going. If her head had
been clearer she would almost certainly have fallen into the trap which
had been laid for her. Molloy stopped drumming on the table and clenched
his hand. With all his strength he was praying to the saints in whom he
no longer believed. Behind the screen twenty-three men waited in a dead
silence. Renata was not frightened any more, but she was tired—oh, so
dreadfully tired. Annihilate—aniline—the words and their similarity of
sound teased her. She turned from them with a little burst of petulance.
“I didn’t hear anything like that. Oh, do let me go to bed! I only heard
some one call out....”
“Yes?” said Number Two.
“He said, ‘The door, the door!’ and then there were all those lights.”