Cyril Hands had always lived up in Akra among the Europeans, but much of

his time was necessarily spent in the Mûristan district.

The building was known as the "Research Museum."

Hands and his assistants had gathered a valuable collection of ancient

curiosities.

Here were hundreds of drawings and photographs of various excavations.

Accurate measurements of tombs, buried houses, ancient churches were

entered in great books.

In glass cases were fragments of ancient pottery, old Hebrew seals,

scarabs, antique fragments of jewellery--all the varied objects from

which high scholarship and expert training was gradually, year by year,

providing a luminous and entirely fresh commentary on Holy Writ.

Here, in short, were the tools of what is known as the "Higher

Criticism."

Attached to the museum was a library and drawing office, a photographic

dark room, apartments for the curator and his wife. A man who engaged

the native labour required for the excavations superintended the work of

the men and acted as general agent and intermediary between the European

officials and all Easterns with whom they came in contact.

This man was well known in the city--a character in his way. In the

reports of the Exploring Society he was often referred to as an

invaluable assistant. But a year ago his portrait had been published in

the annual statement of the fund, and the face of the Greek Ionides in

his turban lay upon the study tables of many a quiet English vicarage.

Spence entered the courtyard of the building. It was quiet and deserted;

some pigeons were feeding there.

He turned under a stone archway to the right, pushed open a door, and

entered the museum.

There was a babel of voices.

A small group of people stood by a wooden pedestal in the centre of the

room, which supported the famous cruciform font found at Bîâr Es-seb'a.

They turned at Spence's entrance. He saw some familiar faces of people

with whom he had been brought in contact during the time of the first

discovery.

Two English missionaries, one in orders, the English Consul, and

Professor Theodore Adams, the American archæologist, who lived all the

year round in the new western suburb, stood speaking in grave tones and

with distressed faces--so it seemed to the intruder.

An Egyptian servant, dressed in white linen, carrying a bunch of keys,

was with them.

In his hand the Consul held a roll of yellow native wax.

An enormous surprise shone out on the faces of these people as Spence

walked up to him.

"Mr. Spence!" said the Consul, "we never expected you or heard of your

coming. This is most fortunate, however. You were his great friend. I

think you both shared chambers together in London?"

Spence looked at him in wonder, mechanically shaking the proffered hand.

"I don't think I quite understand," he said. "I came here quite by

chance, just to see if there was any one that I knew about."

"Then you have not heard--" said the clergyman.

"I have heard nothing."

"Your friend, our distinguished fellow-worker, Professor Hands, is no

more. We have just received a cable. Poor, dear Hands died of heart

disease while taking a seaside holiday."

Spence was genuinely affected.

Hands was an old and dear friend. His sweet, kindly nature, too dreamy

and retiring perhaps for the rush and hurry of Occidental life, had

always been wonderfully welcome for a month or two each year in

Lincoln's Inn. His quaint, learned letters, his enthusiasm for his work

had become part of the journalist's life. They were recurring pleasures.

And now he was gone!

Now it was all over. Never more would he hear the quiet voice, hear the

water-pipe bubble in the quiet old inn as night gave way to dawn....

His brain whirled with the sudden shock. He grew very pale, waiting to

hear more.

"We know little more," said the Consul, with a sigh. "A cable from the

central office of the Society has just stated the fact and asked me to

take official charge of everything here. We were just about to begin

sealing up the rooms when you came. There are many important documents

which must be seen to. Mr. Forbes, poor Hands's assistant, is away on

the shores of the Dead Sea, but we have sent for him by the camel

garrison post. But it will be some weeks before he can be here,

probably."

"This is terribly sad news for me," said Spence at length. "We were, of

course, the dearest friends. The months when Hands was in town were

always the pleasantest. Of course, lately we did not see so much of each

other; he had become a public character. He was becoming very depressed

and unwell, terrified, I almost think, at what was going on in the world

owing to the discovery he had made, and he was going away to

recuperate. But I knew nothing of this!"

"I am sorry," said the Consul, "to have to tell you of such a sad

business, but we naturally thought that somehow you knew--though, of

course, in point of time that would hardly be possible, or only just

so."

"I am in the East," said Spence, giving an explanation that he had

previously prepared if it became necessary to account for his

presence--"I am here on a mission for my newspaper--to ascertain various

points about public opinion in view of all these imminent international

complications."

"Quite so, quite so," said the Consul. "I shall be glad to help you in

any way I can, of course. But when you came in we were wondering what we

should do exactly about poor Hands's private effects, papers, and so on.

When he went on leave all his things were packed in cases and sent down

here from his rooms in the upper city. I suppose they had better be

shipped to England. Perhaps you would take charge of them on your

return?"

"I expect you will hear from his brother, the Rev. John Hands, a

Leicestershire clergyman, when the mail comes in," said Spence. "This is

a great blow to me. I should like to pay my poor friend some public

tribute. I should like to write something for English people to read--a

sketch of his life and work here in Jerusalem--his daily work among you

all."

His voice faltered. His eyes had fallen on a photograph which hung upon

the wall. A group of Arabs sat at the mouth of a rock tomb. In front of

them, wearing a sun helmet and holding a ten-foot surveyor's wand, stood

the dead professor. A kindly smile was on his face as he looked down

upon the white figures of his men.

"It would be a gracious tribute," said one of the missionaries. "Every

one loved him, whatever their race or creed. We can all tell you of him

as we saw him in our midst. It is a great pity that old Ionides has

gone. He was the confidential sharer of all the work here, and Hands

trusted him implicitly. He could have told you much."

"I remember Ionides well," said Spence. "At the time of the discovery,

of course, he was very much in evidence, and he was examined by the

committee. Is the old fellow dead, then?"

"No," answered the missionary. "Some time ago, just after the Commission

left, in fact, he came into a considerable sum of money. He was getting

on in years, and he resigned his position here. He has taken an olive

farm somewhere by Nabulûs, a Turkish city by Mount Gerizim. I fear we

shall never see him more. He would grieve at this news."

"I think," said Spence, "I will go back to my hotel. I should like to be

alone to-day. I will call on you this evening, if I may," he added,

turning to the Consul.

He left the melancholy group, once more beginning their sad business,

and went out again into the narrow street.

He wanted to be alone, in some quiet place, to pay his departed friend

the last rites of quiet thought and memory. He would say a prayer for

him in the cool darkness of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

How did it go?

"_So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this

mortal shall have put on immortality; Then shall be brought to pass

the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O

death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?_"

Always all his life long he had thought that these were perhaps the most

beautiful of written words.

He turned to the right, passed the Turkish guard at the entrance, and

went down the narrow steps to the "Calvary" chapel.

The gloom and glory of the great church, its rich and sombre light, the

cool yet heavy air, saddened his soul. He knelt in humble prayer.

When he came out once more into the brilliant sunlight and the noises of

the city he felt braver and more confident.

He began to turn his thoughts earnestly and resolutely to his mission.

Swiftly, with a quick shock of memory, he remembered his talk with the

old fortune-teller. It was with an unpleasant sense of chill and shock

that he remembered her predictions.

Some strange sense of divination had told her of this sad news that

waited for him. He could not explain or understand it. But there was

more than this. It might be wild and foolish, but he could not thrust

the woman's words from his brain.

She knew he was in quest of some one. She said he would be told....

He entered the yellow stone portico of the hotel with a sigh of relief.

The hall was large, flagged, and cool. A pool of clear water was in the

centre, glimmering green over its tiles. The eye rested on it with

pleasure. Spence sank into a deck-chair and clapped his hands. He was

exhausted, tired, and thirsty.

An Arab boy came in answer to his hand-clapping. He brought an envelope

on a tray.

It was a cable from England.

Spence went up-stairs to his bedroom. From his kit-bag he drew a small

volume, bound in thick leather, with a locked clasp.

It was Sir Michael Manichoe's private cable code--a precious volume

which great commercial houses all over the world would have paid great

sums to see, which the great man in his anxiety and trust had confided

to his emissary.

Slowly and laboriously he de-coded the message, a collection of letters

and figures to be momentous in the history of Christendom.

These were the words:

"_The woman has discovered everything from Llwellyn. All suspicions

confirmed. Conspiracy between Llwellyn and Schuabe. You will find

full confirmation from the Greek foreman of Society explorations,

Ionides. Get statement of truth by any means, coercion or money to

any amount. All is legitimate. Having obtained, hasten home,

special steamer if quicker. Can do nothing certain without your

evidence. We trust in you. Hasten._

"MANICHOE."

He trembled with excitement as he relocked the code.

It was a light in a dark place. Ionides! the trusted for many years! The

eager helper! The traitor bought by Llwellyn!

It was afternoon now. He must go out again. A caravan, camels, guides,

must be found for a start to-morrow.

It would not be a very difficult journey, but it must be made with

speed, and it was four days, five days away.

He passed out of the hotel and by the Tower of Hippicus.

A new drinking fountain had been erected there, a domed building, with

pillars of red stone and a glittering roof, surmounted by a golden

crescent.

Some camel drivers were drinking there. He was passing by when a tall,

white-robed figure bowed low before him. A voice, speaking French, bade

him good-day.

The face of the man seemed familiar. He asked him his name and business.

It was Ibrahim, the Egyptian servant he had seen at the museum in the

morning.

The rooms had been sealed up, and the man had been to the Consul's

private house with the keys.

This man had temporarily succeeded the Greek Ionides.

Spence turned back to the hotel and bade Ibrahim follow him.

CHAPTER VI

UNDER THE EASTERN STARS: TOWARDS GERIZIM

The night was cold and still, the starlight brilliant in the huge hollow

sapphire of the sky.

Wrapped in a heavy cloak, Spence sat at the door of one of the two

little tents which composed his caravan.

Ibrahim the Egyptian, a Roman Catholic, as it seemed, had volunteered to

act as dragoman. In a few hours this man had got together the necessary

animals and equipment for the expedition to Nabulûs.

Spence rode a little grey horse of the wiry Moabite breed, Ibrahim a

Damascus bay. The other men, a cook and two muleteers, all Syrians of

the Greek Church, rode mules.

The day's march had been long and tiring. Night, with its ineffable

peace and rest, was very welcome.

On the evening of the morrow they would be on the slopes of Ebal and

Gerizim, near to the homestead of the man they sought.

All the long day Spence had asked himself what would be the outcome of

this wild journey. He was full of a grim determination to wring the

truth from the renegade. In his hip pocket his revolver pressed against

his thigh. He was strung up for action. Whatever course presented

itself, that he would take, regardless of any law that there might be

even in these far-away districts.

His passport was specially endorsed by the Foreign Office; he bore a

letter, obtained by the Consul, from the Governor of Jerusalem to the

Turkish officer in command of Nabulûs.

He had little doubt of the ultimate result. Money or force should obtain

a full confession, and then, a swift rush for London with the charter of

salvation--for it would be little less than that--and the engine of

destruction for the two terrible criminals at home.

As they marched over the plains the red anemone and blue iris had peeped

from the herbage. The ibex, the roebuck, the wild boar, had fled from

the advancing caravan.

Eagles and vultures had moved heavily through the sky at vast heights.

Quails, partridges, and plovers started from beneath the horses' feet.

As the sun plunged away, the owls had begun to mourn in the olive

groves, the restless chirping of the grasshoppers began to die away, and

as the stars grew bright, the nightingale--the lonely song-bird of these

solitudes--poured out his melody to the night.

The camp had been formed under the shade of a clump of terebinth and

acacias close to a spring of clear water which made the grass around it

a vivid green, in pleasant contrast to the dry, withered herbage in the

open.

The men had dug out tree roots for fuel, and a red fire glowed a few

yards away from Spence's tent.

A group of silent figures sat round the fire. Now and then a low murmur

of talk sounded for a minute and then died away again. A slight breeze,

cool and keen, rustled in the trees overhead. Save for that, and the

occasional movement of one of the hobbled horses, no sound broke the

stillness of the glorious night.

It was here, so Spence thought, that the Lord must have walked with His

disciples on the journey between Jerusalem and Nazareth.

On such a night as this the little group may have sat in the vale of El

Makhna in quiet talk at supper-time.

The same stars looked down on him as they did on those others two

thousand years ago. How real and true it all seemed here! How much

_easier_ it was to realise and believe than in Chancery Lane!

Why did men live in cities?

Was it not better far for the soul's health to be here alone with God?

Here, and in such places as these, God spoke clear and loud to the

hearts of men. He shuddered as the thought of his own lack of faith came

back to him.

In rapid review he saw the recent time of his hopelessness and shame.

How utterly he had fallen to pieces! It was difficult to understand the

pit into which he was falling so easily when Basil had come to him.

Now, the love of God ran in his veins like fire, every sight and sound

spoke to him of the Christus Consolator.

It was more than mere cold belief, a _love_ or personal devotion to

Christ welled up in him. The figure of the Man of Sorrows was very near

him--there was a great fiery cross of stars in the sky above him.

He entered the little tent to pray. He prayed humbly that it might be

even thus until the end. He prayed that this new and sweet communion

with his Master might never fade or lessen till the glorious daylight of

Death dawned and this sojourning far from home was over.

And, in the name of all the unknown millions whom he was come to this

far land to aid, he prayed for success, for the Truth to be made

manifest, and for a happy issue out of all these afflictions.

"And this we beg for Jesus Christ, _His_ sake."

Then much refreshed and comforted he emerged once more into the serene

beauty of the night.

He lit his pipe and sat there, quietly smoking. Presently Ibrahim the

Egyptian began to croon a low song, one of the Egyptian songs that

soldiers sing round the camp-fires.

The man had done his term of compulsory service in the past, and perhaps

this sudden transition from the comfortable quarters in Jerusalem to the

old life of camp-fire and _plein air_ had its way with him and opened

the springs of memory.

This is part of what he sang in a thin, sad voice:

_Born in Galiub, since my birth, many times have I seen the

Nile's waters overflow our fields.

And I had a neighbour, Sheikh Abdehei, whose daughter's face was

known only to me:

Nothing could be compared to the beauty and tenderness of Fatmé.

Her eyes were as big as coffee cups, and her body was firm with the

vigour of youth.

We had one heart, and were free from jealousies, ready to be

united.

But Allah curse the military inspector who bound my two hands,

For, together with many more, we were marched off to the camp.

I was poor and had to serve, nothing could soften the inspector's

heart.

The drums and the trumpets daily soon made me forget my cottage and

the well-wheel on the Nile._

The long-drawn-out notes vibrated mournfully in the night air.

Sadly the singer put his hand to one side of his head, bending as if he

were wailing.

The quaint, imaginative song-story throbbed through many phases and

incidents, and every now and again the motionless figures round the red

embers wailed in sympathy.

At last came the end, a happy climax, no less loved by these simple

children of the desert than by the European novel reader.

_ ... So that I was in the hospital and had become most seriously

ill.

But swifter than the gazelle, the light of my life came near the

hospital.

And called in at the window, "Ibrahim! my eye! my heart!"

And full of joy I carried her about the camp, and presented her to

all my superiors, leaving out none, from the colonel down to the

sergeant.

I received my dismissal, to return to Galiub and to marry.

Old Abdehei was awaiting us, to bless us. God be praised!_

So sang Ibrahim, the converted Christian, the Moslem songs of his youth;

for here, in El Makhna, the plain of Shechem, there were no missionaries

with their cold reproof and little hymns in simple couplets.

The fire died away, and they slept until dawn flooded the plain.

When, on the next day, the sun was waning, though still high in the

western heavens, the travellers came within view of the ancient city of

Nabulûs.

There was a great tumult of excitement in Spence's pulses as he saw the

city, radiant in the long afternoon lights, and far away.

Here, in the confines of this distant glittering town, lay the last link

in the terrible secret which he was to solve.

On either side the purple slopes of the mountains made a mighty frame to

the terraced houses below. Ebal and Gerizim kept solemn watch and ward

over the city.

The sun was just sinking as they rode into the suburbs. It was a lovely,

placid evening.

The abundant cascades of water, which flow from great fissures in the

mountain and make this Turkish town the jewel of the East, glittered in

the light.

Below them the broad, still reservoirs lay like plates of gold.

They rode through luxuriant groves of olives, figs, and vines,

wonderfully grateful and refreshing to the eye after the burnt brown

herbage of the plain, towards the regular camping-ground where all

travellers lay.

In the cool of the evening Spence and Ibrahim rode through the teeming

streets to the Governor's house.

It was a city of fanatics, so the Englishman had heard, and during the

great Moslem festivals the members of the various, and rather extensive,

missionary establishments were in constant danger. But as the two men

rode among the wild armed men who sat in the bazaars or pushed along the

narrow streets they were not in any way molested.

After a ceremonious introduction and the delivery of the letter from the

Governor of Jerusalem, Spence made known his business over the coffee

and cigarettes which were brought immediately on his arrival.

The Governor was a placid, pleasant-mannered man, very ready to give his

visitor any help he could.

It was represented to him that the man Ionides, who had but lately

settled in the suburbs, was in the possession of some important secrets

affecting the welfare of many wealthy residents in Jerusalem. These, it

was hinted, were of a private nature, but in all probability great

pressure would have to be put upon the Greek in order to receive any

satisfactory confession.

The conversation, which was carried on in French, ended in an eminently

satisfactory way.

"Monsieur will understand," said the Governor, "that I make no inquiry

into the nature of the information monsieur wishes to obtain. I may or

may not have my ideas upon that subject. The Greek was, I understand,

intimately connected with the recent discoveries in Jerusalem. Let that

pass. It is none of my business. Here I am a good Moslem, Allah be

praised! it is a necessity of my official position."

He laughed cynically, clapped his hands for a new brass vessel of

creaming coffee and continued:

"A political necessity, Monsieur, as a man of the world, will quite

understand me. I have been in London, at the Embassy, and I myself am

free from foolish prejudices. I am not Moslem in heart nor am I

Christian--some coffee, Monsieur?--yes! Monsieur also is a man of the

world!"

Spence, sitting cross-legged opposite his host, had smiled an answering

cynical smile at these words. He shrugged his shoulders and threw out

his hands. Everything depended upon making a good impression upon this

local autocrat.

"Eh bien, monsieur avait raison-même--that, I repeat, is not my affair.

But this letter from my brother of Jerusalem makes me of anxiety to

serve your interests. And, moreover, the man is a Greek, of no great

importance--we are not fond of the Greeks, we Turks! Now it is most

probable that the man will not speak without persuasion. Moreover, that

persuasion were better officially applied. To assist monsieur, I shall

send Tewfik Pasha, my nephew, and captain commandant of the northern

fort, with half a dozen men. If this dog will not talk they will know

how to make him. I suppose you have no scruples as to any means they may

employ? There are foolish prejudices among the Western people."

Spence took his decision very quickly. He was a man who had been on many

battle-fields, knew the grimness of life in many lands. If torture were

necessary, then it must be so. The man deserved it, the end was great if

the means were evil. It must be remembered that Spence was a man to

whom the very loftiest and highest Christian ideals had not yet been

made manifest. There are degrees in the struggle for saintliness; the

journalist was but a postulant.

He saw these questions of conduct roughly, crudely. His conscience

animated his deeds, but it was a conscience as yet ungrown. And indeed

there are many instruments in an orchestra, all tuneful perhaps to the

conductor's beat, which they obey and understand, yet not all of equal

eminence or beauty in the great scheme of the concert.

The violin soars into great mysteries of emotion, calling high "in the

deep-domed empyrean." The flutes whisper a chorus to the great story of

their comrade. Yet, though the plangent sounding of the kettle-drums,

the single beat of the barbaric cymbals are in one note and unfrequent,

yet these minor messages go to swell the great tone-symphony and make it

perfect in the serene beauty of something _directed and ordained_.

"Sir," said the journalist, "the man must be made to speak. The methods

are indifferent to me."

"Oh, that can be done; we have a way," said the Governor.

He shifted a little among his cushions. A certain dryness came into his

voice as he resumed:

"Monsieur, however, as a man of the world, will understand, no doubt,

that when a private individual finds it necessary to invoke the powers

of law it is a vast undertaking to move so ponderous a machine?... also

it is a privilege? It is not, of course, a personal matter--_ça m'est

égal_. But there are certain unavoidable and indeed quite necessary

expenses which must be satisfied."

Spence well understood the polite humbug of all this. He knew that in

the East one buys justice--or injustice--as one can afford it. As the

correspondent of that great paper over which Ommaney presided, he had

always been able to spend money like water when it had been necessary.

He had those powers now. There was nothing unusual to him in the

situation, nor did he hesitate.

"Your Excellency," he said, "speaks with great truth upon these points.

It is ever from a man of your Excellency's penetration that one hears

those dicta which govern affairs. I have a certain object in view, and I

realise that to obtain it there are certain necessary formalities to be

gone through. I have with me letters of credit upon the bank of Lelain

Delaunay et Cie., of Jaffa, Jerusalem, and Athens."

"A sound, estimable house," said the Governor, with a very pleased

smile.

"It but then remains," said Spence, "to confer with the secretary of

your Excellency as to the sum which is necessary to pay for the legal

expenses of the inquiry."

"You speak most sensibly," said the Turk. "In the morning I will send

the captain commandant and the soldiers to the encampment. My secretary

shall accompany them. Then, Monsieur, when the little preliminaries are

arranged, you will be free to start for the farm of this dog Ionides. It

is not more than four miles from your camp, and my nephew will guide you

there. May Allah prosper your undertaking."

"--And have you in His care," replied Spence. "I will now have the

honour to wish your Excellency undisturbed rest."

He rose and bowed. The Turkish gentleman rose also and shook hands in

genial European fashion.

"Monsieur," he said, with an expansive smile, "Monsieur is without doubt

a thorough man of the world."

That night, in the suburbs of the city, sweet and fragrant as the olive

groves and fig trees were, cool and fresh as the night wind was, Spence

slept but little.

He could hear the prowling dogs of the streets baying the Eastern moon,

the owls hooted in the trees, but it was not these distant sounds, all

mellowed by the distance, which drove rest and sleep away. It was the

imminent sense of the great issues of the morrow, a wild and fierce

excitement which forbade sleep or rest and filled his veins with fire.

He could not quite realise what awful things hung upon the event of the

coming day. He knew that his brain could not contain the whole terror

and vastness of the thought.

Indeed, he felt that _no_ brain could adequately realise the importance

of it all.

Yet even that partial realisation of which he was capable was enough to

drive all peace away, the live-long night, to leave him nothing but the

plangent, burning thought.

He was very glad when the cool, hopeful dawn came.

The nightmare of vigil was gone. Action was at hand. He prayed in the

morning air.

Presently, from the city gates, he saw a little cavalcade drawing near,

twelve soldiers on wiry Damascene horses, an officer, with the

Governor's secretary riding by his side.

Those preliminaries of a signed draft upon the bank, which cupidity and

the occasion demanded, were soon over.

These twelve soldiers and their commandant cost him two hundred pounds

"English"; but that was nothing.

If his own words were ineffective, then the cord and wedge must do the

rest. It had to be paid for.

The world was waiting.

On through the olive groves and the vines laden with purple. On, over

the little stone-bridged cascades and streams--sweet gifts of lordly

Ebal--round the eastern wall of the town, crumbling stone where the

mailed lizards were sleeping in the sun; on to the low roofs and vivid

trees where the Greek traitor had made his home!

At length the red road opened before them on to a burnt plain which was

the edge and brim of the farm.

It lay direct and patent to the view, the place of the great secret.

Ionides was waiting for them, under a light verandah which ran round the

house, before they reached the building.

He had seen them coming over the plain.

A little elderly olive-skinned man, with restless eyes the colour of

sherry, bowed and bent before them with terrified inquiry in every

gesture.

His gaze flickered over the arms and shabby uniforms of the soldiers

with hate and fear in it mingled with a piteous cringing. It was the

look which the sad Greek boatmen on the shores of the Bosphorus wear all

their lives.

Then he saw Spence and recognised him as the Englishman who had been the

friend of Hands, and was at the meetings of the Conference.

The sight of the journalist seemed to affect him like a sudden blow. The

fear and uneasiness he had shown at the first sight of the Turkish

soldiers were intensified a thousand-fold.

The man seemed to shrink and collapse. His face became ashen grey, his

lips parched suddenly, for his tongue began to curl round them in order

to moisten their rigidity.

With a great effort he forced himself to speak in English first, fluent

enough but elementary, and then in a rush of French, the language of all

Europe, and one with which the cosmopolitan Greek is ever at home.

The captain gave an order. His men dismounted and tied up the horses.

Then, taking the conduct of the affair into his own hands at once, he

spoke to Ionides with a snarling contempt and brutality that he would

hardly have used to a strolling street dog.

"The English gentleman has come to ask you some questions, dog. See to

it that you give a true answer and speedy. For, if not, there are many

ways to make you. I have the warrant of his Excellency the Governor to

do as I please with you and yours."

The Greek made an inarticulate noise. He raised one long-fingered,

delicate hand to his throat.

Spence, as he watched, could not help a feeling of pity. The whole

attitude of the man was inexpressibly painful in its sheer terror.

His face had become a white wedge of fear.

The officer spoke again.

"You will take the English pasha into a private room," he said sternly,

"where he will ask you all he wishes. I shall post two of my men at the

door. Take heed that they do not have to summon me. And meanwhile bring

out food and entertainment for me and my soldiers."

He clapped his hands and the women of the house, who were peering round

the end of the verandah, ran to bring pilaff and tobacco.

Spence, with two soldiers, closely following the swaying, tottering

figure of Ionides, went into a cool chamber opening on to the little

central courtyard round which the house was built.

It was a bare room, with a low bench or ottoman here and there.

But, on the walls, oddly incongruous in such a setting, were some framed

photographs. Hands, in a white linen suit and a wide Panama hat, was

there; there was a photograph of the museum at Jerusalem, and a picture

cut from an English illustrated paper of the Society's great excavations

at Tell Sandahannah.

It was odd, Spence thought gravely, that the man cared to keep these

records of his life in Jerusalem, crowned as it was with such an act of

treachery.

He sat down on the ottoman. The Greek stood before him, cowering against

the wall.

It was a little difficult to know how he should begin; what was the best

method to ensure a full confession.

He lit a cigarette to help his thoughts.

"What did Sir Robert Llwellyn give you?--how much?" he said suddenly.

Again the look of ashen fear came over the Greek's face. He struggled

with it before he spoke.

"I am sorry that your meaning is not plain to me, sir. I do not know of

whom you speak."

"I speak of him whom you served secretly. It was with your aid that the

'new' tomb was found. But before it was found you and Sir Robert

Llwellyn were at work there. I have come to obtain from you a detailed

confession of how the thing was done, who cut the inscription?--I must

know everything. If not, I tell you with perfect truth, your life is not

safe. The Governor has sent men with me and you will be made to speak."

He spoke with a deep menace in his tone, and at the same time drew his

revolver from the hip pocket of his riding-breeches and held it on his

knee.

He had begun to realise the awful nature of this man's deed more and

more poignantly in his presence. True, he was the tool of greater

intelligences, and his guilt was not so heavy as theirs. Nevertheless,

the Greek was no fool, he had something of an education, he had not done

this thing blindly.

The man crouched against the wall, desperate and hopeless.

One of the soldiers outside the door moved, and his sabre clanked.

The sound was decisive. With a broken, husky voice Ionides began his

miserable confession.

How simple it was! Wild astonishment at the ease with which the whole

thing had been done filled the journalist's brain.

The tomb, already known to the Greek, the slow carving of the

inscription at dead of night by Llwellyn, the new coating of _hamra_

sealing up the inner chamber.

And yet, so skilfully had the forgeries been committed, chance had so

aided the forgers, and their secret had been so well preserved that the

whole world of experts was deceived.

In the overpowering relief of the confession Spence was but little

interested in the details, but at length they were duly set down and

signed by the Greek in the presence of the officer.

By midnight the journalist was far away on the road to Jerusalem.

CHAPTER VII

THE LAST MEETING

In Sir Robert Llwellyn's flat in Bond Street the electric bell suddenly

rang, a shrill tinkle in the silence.

Schuabe, who sat by the window, looked up with a strained, white face.

Avoiding his glance, Llwellyn rose and went out into the passage. The

latch of the door clicked, there was a murmur of voices, and Llwellyn

returned, following a third person.

Schuabe gave a scarcely perceptible shudder as this man entered.

The man was a thick-set person of medium height, clean shaven. He was

dressed in a frock-coat and carried a silk hat, neither new nor smart,

yet not seedy nor showing any evidences of poverty. The man's face was

one to inspire a sensitive or alert person with a sudden disgust and

terror for which a name can hardly be found. It was an utterly

abominable and black soul that looked out of the still rather bilious

eyes.

The eyes were much older than the rest of the face. They were full of a

cold and deliberate cruelty and, worse even than this, such a hideous

_knowledge_ of unmentionable crime was there! The lips made one thin,

wicked curve which hardly varied in direction, for this man could not

smile.

He belonged to a certain horrible gang who infest the West End of

London, bringing terror and ruin to all they meet. These people haunt

the bars and music halls of the "pleasure" part of London.

It were better for a man that he had never been born--a thousand times

better--than that he should go among these men. Black shame and horrors

worse than death they bring with both hands to the bitter fools who

lightly meet them unknowing what they are.

Constantine Schuabe, in the moment when he saw this man--knowing well

who and what he was--knew the bitterest moment of his life.

Vast criminal that he was himself, mighty in his evil brain, ... he was

pure; certain infamies were not his.... He spat into his handkerchief

with an awful physical disgust.

"This is my friend, Nunc Wallace," said Llwellyn, pale and trembling.

The man looked keenly at his two hosts. Then he sat down in a chair.

"Well, gentlemen," he said in correct English, but with a curious lack

of _timbre_, of life and feeling in his voice--he spoke as one might

think a corpse would speak--"I'm sorry to say that it's all off. It

simply can't be done at any price. Even I myself, 'King of the boys' as

they call me, confess myself beaten."

Schuabe gave a sudden start, almost of relief it seemed.

Llwellyn cleared his throat once or twice before he could speak. When

the words came at length there was a nauseous eagerness in them.

"Why not, Wallace? Surely _you_ and your friends--it must be something

very hard that you can't manage."

The words jostled each other in their rapid utterance.

"Give me a drink, Sir Robert, and I'll tell you the reason," said the

man.

Then, with an inexpressible assumption of confidence and an identity of

interests, which galled and stung the two wretched men till they could

hardly bear the torture of it, he began:

"You see, it's like this; we can generally calculate on 'putting a man

through it' if he's anything to do with racing on the Turf. I've seen a

man's face kicked liver colour, and no one knew who did it. But this

parson was a more difficult thing altogether. Then it has been very much

complicated by the fact of his friend coming back.

"The idea was to get into the chambers on the evening of this Spence's

arrival and put them both through it. In fact, we'd arranged everything

fairly well. But two nights ago, as I was in the American bar, at the

Horsecloth, a man touched me on the arm. It was Detective Inspector

Melton. He knows everything. 'Nunc,' he said, 'sit down at one of these

little tables and have a drink. I want to say a few words to you.' Well,

of course I had to. He knows every one of the boys.

"'Now, look here,' he said straight out. 'Some of your crowd have been

watching the Rev. Basil Gortre of Lincoln's Inn; also, you've had a man

at Charing Cross waiting for the continental express. Now, I've nothing

against you _yet_, but I'll just tell you this. The people behind you

aren't any guarantee for you. It's not as you think. This is a big

thing. I'll tell you something more. This Mr. Gortre and this Mr.

Spence you're waiting for are guarded night and day by order of the Home

Secretary. It's an international affair. You can no more touch them than

you can touch the Prince of Wales. Is that clear? If it's not, then

you'll come with me at once on suspicion. I can put my finger on Bunny

Watson'--he's my organising pal, gentlemen--'inside of an hour.'"

He stopped at last, taking another drink with a shaking hand, watching

the other two with horribly observing eyes.

His cleverness had at once shown him that he had stumbled into something

far more dangerous than any ordinary incident of his horrid trade. A

million pounds would not have made him touch the "business" now. He had

come to say this to his employers now.

The unhappy men became aware that the man was looking at them both with

a new expression. There was wonder in his cold eyes now, and a sort of

fear also. When Llwellyn had first sought him with black and infamous

proposals, there had been none of this. _That_ had seemed ordinary

enough to him, the reason he did not inquire or seek to know.

But now there was inquiry in his eyes.

Both Schuabe and Llwellyn saw it, knew the cause, and shuddered.

There was a tense silence, and then the creature spoke again. There was

a loathsome confidential note in his voice.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you've already paid me well for any little

kindness I may have been able to try to do for you. I suppose, now that

the little job is 'off,' I shall not get the rest of the sum agreed

upon?"

Schuabe, without speaking, made a sign to Llwellyn. The big man got up,

went to a little nest of mahogany drawers which stood on his

writing-table, and opening one of them, took from it a bundle of notes.

He gave them to the assassin. "There, Nunc," he said; "no doubt you've

done all you could. You won't find us ungrateful. But I want to ask you

a few questions."

The man took the notes, counted them deliberately, and then looked up

with a gleam of satisfied greed passing over his face--the gleam of a

pale sunbeam in hell.

"Ask anything you like, sir," he said; "I'll give you any help I can."

Already there was a ring almost of patronage in his voice. The word

"help" was slightly emphasised.

"This inspector, who is he exactly? I mean, is he an important person?"

"He is the man who has charge of all the big things. He goes abroad when

one of the big city men bunk to South America. He generally works

straight from the Home Office; he's the Government man. To tell the

truth, I was surprised to meet _him_ in the Horsecloth. One of the

others generally goes there. When _he_ began to talk, I knew that there

was something important, more than usual."

"He definitely said that he knew your--backers?"

"Yes, he did; and what's more, gentlemen, he seemed to know too much

altogether about the business. I don't pretend to understand it. _I_

don't know why a young parson and a press reporter are being looked

after by Government as if they were continental sovereigns and the

Anarchists were trying to get at them--no more than I know why two such

gentlemen as you are wanting two smaller men put through it. But all's

well that ends well. _I'm_ satisfied enough, and I'm extremely glad that

I got this notice in time to stop it off. But whatever you do,

gentlemen, give up any idea of doing those two any harm. You couldn't do

it--couldn't get near them. Give it up, gentlemen. Somehow or other,

they know all about it. Be careful. Now I'm off. Good-day, gentlemen.

Look after yourselves. I fear there is trouble brewing somewhere, though

it won't come through _me_. They can't _prove_ anything on our side."

He went slowly out of the room, back into the darkness of the pit whence

he came, to the dark which mercifully hides such as he from the gaze of

dwellers under the heavens.

Only the police of London know all about these men, and their

imaginations are not, perhaps, strong enough to let the horror of

contact remain with them.

When he had gone, Llwellyn sank heavily into a chair. He covered his

face with his hands and moaned.

"Oh, fool that I was to try anything of the sort!" hissed Schuabe. "I

might have known!"

"What is the state of things, really, do you suppose?" said Llwellyn.

"Imminent with doom for us!" Schuabe answered in a deep and melancholy

voice. "It is all clear to me now. Your woman was set on to you by these

men from the first. They are clever men. Michael Manichoe is behind them

all. She got the story. Spence has been sent to verify it. He has got

everything from Ionides. The Government has been told. These things have

been going on during the last few hours. Spence has cabled something of

his news, perhaps not all. He will be back to-day, this afternoon. He

will have left Paris by now, and almost be nearing Amiens. In that

train, Llwellyn, lies our death-warrant. Nothing can stop it. They will

send the news all over the world to-night. It will be announced in

London by dinner-time, probably."

Llwellyn groaned again. In this supreme hour of torture the sensualist

was nearer collapse than the ascetic. His life told heavily. He looked

up. His face was green-grey save where, here and there, his fingers had

pressed into, and left red marks upon, the cheeks, which had lost their

firmness and begun to be pendulous and flabby.

"What do you think must be the end?" he said.

"The end is here," said Schuabe. "What matters the form or manner of it?

They may bring in a bill and hang us, they will certainly give us penal

servitude for life, but probably we shall be torn in pieces by the mob.

There is only one thing left."

He made an expressive gesture. Llwellyn shuddered.

"All is not necessarily at an end," he said. "I shall make a last effort

to get away. I have still got the clergyman's clothes I wore when I went

to Jerusalem. There will be time to get out of London before this

evening."

"All over the continent and America you would be known. There is no

getting away nowadays. As for me, I shall go down to my place in

Manchester by the mid-day train. There is just time to catch it. And

there I shall die before they can come to me."

He got up and strode away out of the flat with a set, stern face. Never

a passing look did he give to the man he had enriched and damned for

ever. Never a gesture of farewell.

Already he was as one in the grave. Llwellyn, left to himself in the

silent, richly furnished flat, fell into hysterical sobbing.

His big body shook with the vehemence of his unnatural terror. His moans

and cries were utterly without dignity or pathos. He was filled with the

immense self-pity of the sensualist.

It is the added torture which comes to the evil-liver.

In the hour of blackness, every moment of physical gratification or sin

adds its weight to the terrible burden which must be borne.

This man felt that he was lost. Perhaps all hope was not quite dead. He

called on all his courage to make a last attempt at escape.

He must leave this place at once. He would go first to his house in

Upper Berkeley Street, Lady Llwellyn's house! His wife.

Something strange and long forgotten moved within him at that word. What

might not his life have been by her side, a life lived in open honour!

What had he done with it all? His great name, his fame, were built up

slowly by his long and brilliant work. Yet all the time that fair

edifice was being undermined by secret workers. The lusts of the flesh

were deep below the structure, their hammers were always slowly

tapping--and now it was all over.

He drove up to his own door, unlocked it, and went up the stairs to his

own rooms.

Though he had not been near them for weeks, he saw--with how keen a pang

of regret--that they were swept and tidy, ready for his coming at any

time.

He rang the bell.

CHAPTER VIII

DEATH COMING WITH ONE GRACE

The door opened softly. A long beam of late winter sunshine which had

been pouring in at the opposite window and striking the door with its

projection of golden powder suddenly framed, played over, and lighted up

the figure of Lady Llwellyn.

Sir Robert stood in the middle of the pleasant room and looked at her.

The sunlight showed up the grey pallor of her face, the lines of sorrow

and resignation, the faded hair, the thin and bony hands.

"Kate," he said in a weak voice.

It was the first time he had called her by her name for many years.

The tired face lit up with a swift and divine tenderness.

She made a step forward into the room.

He was swaying a little, giddy, it seemed.

She looked him full in the face and saw things there which she had

never seen before. A great horror was upon him, a frightful awakening

from the long, sensual sloth of his life.

Moving, working, in that great countenance, generally so impassive,

uninfluenced by any emotion--at least to her long watchings--except by a

moody irritation, she saw Doom, Fate, the Call of the Eumenides.

It came to the poor woman in a sudden wave of illuminating certainty.

She _knew_ the end had come.

And yet, strangely enough, she felt nothing but a quickening of the

pulses, a swift embracing pity which was almost a joy in its breaking

away of barriers.

If the end were here, it should be together--at last together.

For she loved this cruel, sinning man, this lover of light loves, this

man of purple, fine linen, and the sparkling deadly wines of life.

"Kate!"

He said it once more.

Her manner changed. Shrinking, timidity, fear, fled for ever. In her

overpowering rush of protecting love all the diffidences of temperament,

all the bars which he had forced her to build around her instincts, were

swept utterly away.

She went quickly up to him, folded him in her arms.

"Robert!" she said, "poor boy, the end has come to it all. I knew it

must come some day. Well, we have not been happy. I wonder if _you_ have

been happy? No, I don't think so. But now, Robert, you have me to

comfort you with my love once more, my poor Robert, once more, as in the

old, simple days when we were young."

She led him to a couch.

He trembled violently. His decision of movement seemed to have gone.

His purpose of flight had for the moment become obscure.

And now, into this man's heart came a remorse and regret so awful, a

realisation so sudden and strong, so instinct with a pain for which

there is no name, that everything before his eyes turned to burning

fire.

The flames of his agony burnt up the veils which had for so long

obscured the truth. They shrivelled and vanished.

Too late, too late, he knew what he had lost.

The last agony wrenched his brain round again to another and more

terrible contemplation.

His thoughts were in other and outside hands, which pulled his brain

from one scene to another as a man moves the eye of the camera obscura

to different fields of view.

Incredible as it may seem, for the first time Llwellyn _realised what he

had done_--realised, that is, in its entirety, the whole horror and

consequences of that action of his which was to kill him now.

He had not _been able_ to see the magnitude and extent of his crime

before--either at the time when it was proposed to him, except at the

first moment of speech, or after its committal.

His brain and temperament had been wrapped round in the hideous fact of

sensuality, which deadens and destroys sensation.

And now, with his wife's thin arms round him, her withered cheek pressed

to his, her words of glad love, a martyr's swan song in his ears, he

_saw_, _knew_, and _understood_.

Through the terror of his thoughts her words began to penetrate.

"I know, Robert--husband, I know. The end is here. But what has

happened? Tell me everything, that I may comfort you the more. Tell me,

Robert, _for the dear Christ's sake_!"

At those words the man stiffened. "For the dear Christ's sake!"

Suddenly, in the disorder and tumult of his tortured brain, came, quite

foolishly and inconsequently, a quotation from an old French

romance--full of satire and the keen cynicism of a period--which he had

been reading:

"_'Tres volontiers,' repartit le démon.

'Vous aimez les tableaux changeans;

Je veux vous contenter.'_"

Yes! the devil who was torturing him now had shown him many moving

aspects of life. _Les tableaux changeans!_

But now, at last, here was the worst moment of all.

"_For the dear Christ's sake, tell me, Robert!_"

How could he tell _this_?

This was his last moment of peace, his last chance of any help or hope.

He had begun to cling to her, to mingle foolish tears with hers--the

while his fired brain ranged all the halls of agony.

For if he told her--this gentle Christian lady, to whom he had been so

unkind--then she would never touch him more.

The last hours--there was but little time remaining--would be alone.

ALONE!

This new revelation that her love was still his, wonder of mysteries!

this came at the last moments to aid him.

A last grace before the running waters closed over him. Was he to give

this up?

The thought of flight lay like a wounded bird in his brain. It crept

about it like some paralysed thing. Not yet dead, but inactive. Though

he knew how terribly the moments called to him, yet he could not act.

The myriad agonies he was enduring now, agonies so various and great

that he knew Hell had none greater, these, even these were alleviated by

the wonder of his wife's love.

The terrible remorse that was knocking at his heart could not undo that.

He clung to her.

"Tell me all about it, Robert. I will forgive you, whatever you have

done. I have long ago forgiven everything in my heart. There are only

the words to say."

She rested her worn, tired head on his shoulder. The sunbeams gave it a

glory.

Again the man must suffer a terrible agony. She had asked him to tell

her all his trouble in a voice full of gentle pleading.

_Whose voice did her voice recall to him; what fatal hour?_ A coarser

voice, a richer voice, trembling, so he had thought, with love for him.

"_Tell me everything, Bob!_" It was Gertrude's voice.

The day of his undoing! The day when his horrid secret was wrested from

him by the levers of his own passions. The day which had brought him to

this. _Finis coronat opus!_

But the agony within him was the agony of _contrast_.

The great fires round his soul had burnt his lust away. There was no

more regret or longing for the evil past. All the joys of a sensual life

seemed as if they had never been. Now, the pain was the pain of a man,

not who knows the worst too soon, but who knows the best too late!

A vivid picture, a succession of thoughts following each other with such

kinetic swiftness that they became welded in one single picture, as one

may see a vast landscape of wood and torrent, champaign and forest, in

one flash of the storm sword, came to him now.

And, at the last, he saw himself seated at a great table in a noble

room. There were soft lights. Silver and flowers were there. Round the

board sat many men and women. On their faces was the calm triumph of

those who had succeeded in a fine battle, won an intellectual strife.

The faces were calm, powerful, serene. They were the salt of society. He

saw his own face in a little mirror set among the flowers. His face was

even as their faces. Self-reverence had dignified it, self-knowledge and

self-control had turned the lines to kindly marble, defiant of time.

At the other end of the table sat a calm and gracious lady, richly

dressed in some glowing sombre stuff. She was the grave and loving

matron who slept by his side.

Full of honour, full of the glorious satisfaction of a great work well

done, a life lived well; hand in hand, a noble and notable pair, they

were making their fine progress together.

"I am waiting, Robert, dear!"

Then he knew that he must speak. In rapid words, which seemed to come

from a vast distance, he confessed it all.

He told her how Schuabe had tempted him with a vast fortune, how he was

already in his power when the temptation had come. How his evil desires

had so gripped him, his life of sin had become like air itself to him.

He told of the secret visit to Palestine and the forgery which had

stirred the world.

As he spoke, he felt, in some subtle way, that the life and warmth were

dying out of the arms which were round him.

The electric current of devotion which had been flowing from this lady

seemed to flicker and die away.

The awful story was ended at last.

Then with a face in which the horror came out in waves, inexpressibly

terrible to see, with each beat of the pulses a wave of unutterable

horror, she slowly rose.

Her arms fell heavily to her sides, all her motions became automatic,

jerky.

Slowly, slowly, she turned.

Her feet made no noise as she moved over the room. Her garments did not

rustle. But she walked, not as an elderly woman, but a very old woman.

The door clicked softly. He was left alone in the comfortable room.

Alone.

He stood up, tottered a few steps in the direction she had gone, and

then, with a resounding crash which shook the furniture in a succession

of quick rattles, his great form fell prone upon the floor.

He lay there, head downwards, with the sunshine pouring on him, still

and without any reactionary movement.

* * * * *

The afternoon was begun. London was as it had been for days. The

uneasiness and unrest which were now become the common incubus of its

inhabitants neither grew nor lessened.

The afternoon papers were merely repetitions of former days. Great

financial houses were tottering, rumours of wars were growing every

hour, no country was at rest, no colony secure. Over the world

lawlessness and rapine were holding horrid revel.

But, and long afterwards, this fact was noticed and commented on by the

historians: on this especial winter's afternoon there was no

ultra-alarming shock, speaking comparatively, to the general state of

things.

In the pale winter sunshine men moved heavily about their business, the

common burden was shared by all, but there was no loud trumpet note

during those hours.

About four o'clock some carriages drove to Downing Street. In one sat

Sir Michael Manichoe, Father Ripon, Harold Spence, and Basil Gortre.

In another was the English Consul at Jerusalem, who had arrived with

Spence from the Holy City, Dr. Schmöulder from Berlin, and the Duke of

Suffolk.

The carriages stopped at the house of the Prime Minister and the party

entered.

Nothing occurred, visibly, for an hour, though urgent messages were

passing over the telephone wires.

In an hour's time a cab came driving furiously down the Embankment,

round by the new Scotland Yard and St. Stephen's Club, into Parliament

Street.

The cab contained the Editor of the _Times_. Following his arrival, in a

few seconds, a number of other cabs drove up, all at a fast pace. Each

one contained a prominent journalist. Ommaney was among the first to

arrive, and Folliott Farmer was with him.

It was nearly an hour when these people left Downing Street, all with

very grave faces.

A few minutes after their departure Sir Michael and his party came out,

accompanied by several ministers, including the Home Secretary and the

Chief Commissioner of Police.

Though the distance to Scotland Yard is only a few hundred yards, the

latter gentleman jumped into a passing hansom and was driven rapidly to

his office.

This brings the time up to about six o'clock.

* * * * *

It was quite dark in Sir Robert's room. A faint yellow flicker came

through the window, which was not curtained, from a gas lamp in the

street. A dull and distant murmur from the Edgeware Road could be dimly

heard, otherwise the room was quite silent.

Llwellyn did not lie where he had fallen. His swoon had lasted long and

no one had come to succour him. But the end was not just yet. The

merciful oblivion of passing from a swoon into death was denied him.

He had come to his senses late in the afternoon, about the time that the

large party of people had emerged on foot and in carriages from the

narrow _cul-de-sac_ of Downing Street.

He had felt very cold, an icy-cold. There had come a terrible moment.

The physical sensation was swamped and forgotten in one frightful flash

of realisation. He was alone, the end was at hand.

Alone.

Instinctively he had tried to rise. He was lying face downwards at the

return of sensation. His legs would not answer the message of his brain

when he tried to move them so that he might rise. They lay like long

dead cylinders behind him. He was able to drag himself very slowly, for

a yard or two, until he reached an ottoman. He could not lift the vast

weight of his body into the seat. It was utterly beyond his strength. He

propped his trunk against the seat. It was all he was able to

accomplish. Icy-cold sweat ran down his cheeks at the exertion. After he

had finished moving he found that all strength had left him.

He was paralysed from the waist downwards. The rest of his body was too

weak to move him.

Only his brain was working with a terrible activity, there alone in the

chill dark.

There came into his molten brain the impulse to pray. Deep down in every

human heart that impulse lies.

It is a seed planted there by God that it may grow into the tree of

salvation.

The effort was sub-conscious. Almost simultaneously with it came the

awful remembrance of what he had done.

A name danced in letters of flame in his brain--JUDAS.

He looked round for some means to end this unbearable torture. He could

see nothing, the room was very cold and dark, but he knew there was a

case of razors on a table by the window.

When he tried to move he found that he could not. The paralysis was

growing upwards.

Then this was to be the end?

A momentary flood of relief came over him. His blood seemed warm again.

But the sensation died rapidly away, the physical and mental glow alike.

He remembered those cases, frequent enough, when the whole body loses

the power of movement, but the brain survives, active, alive, helpless.

And all the sweat which the physical glow had induced turned to little

icicles all over his body, even as the thought froze in his brain.

An hour went by.

Alone in the dark.

His tongue was parched and dry. A sudden wonder came to him--could he

speak still?

Without realising what word he used as a test he spoke.

"Kate."

A gaunt whisper in the silence.

Silence! How silent it was! Yet no, he could hear the distant rumbling

of the traffic. He became suddenly conscious of it. Surely it was very

loud?

It must be this physical change which was creeping over him. His head

was swimming, disordered.

Yet it seemed strangely loud.

And louder, as he began to listen intently. He could not move his head

to catch the sound more clearly, but he was beginning to hear it well

enough now.

No traffic ever sounded quite like that. It was like an advancing tide,

thundering, as a horse gallops, over flat, level sands.

A great sea rushing towards--towards what?

Then he knew what that sound was.

At last he knew.

He could hear the individual shouts that made up the enormous mass of

menacing sound.

The nation was coming to take its revenge upon its betrayer.

Mob law!

They had found him out. It was as Schuabe had said--the great conspiracy

was at an end. The stunning truth was out, flying round the world with

its glad message.

Yet, though once more the dishonoured Cross gleamed as the one solace in

the hearts of men whose faith had been weak, though at that moment the

glad news was racing round the world, yet the evil was not over.

The Prince of the Powers of the air had reigned too long. Not lightly

was he to relinquish his sceptre and dominion.

They were in the erst-while quiet street below. The whole space was

packed with the roaring multitude. The cries and curses came up to him

in one roaring volume of sound, sounds that one looking over the brink

of the pit of hell might hear.

A heavy blow upon the stout door of the old well-built house shook the

walls where the palsied Judas lay impotent.

Another crash! The room was much lighter now, the crowd below had lights

with them.

Crash.

The door opened silently. Lady Llwellyn came swiftly into the room.

She wore a long white robe. Her face was lighted as if a lamp shone

behind it.

In her hand was the great crucifix which was wont to hang above her bed.

When Christ died and bade the dying thief ascend with him to Paradise,

can we say that His silence condemned the other?

Her face was all aglow with love.

"Robert!" she said. Her voice was like the voice of an angel.

Her arms are round him, her kisses press upon him, the great crucifix is

lifted to his dying eyes.

A great thunder on the stairs, furious voices, the tide rising higher,

higher.

Death.

CHAPTER IX

AT WALKTOWN AGAIN

The news came to Walktown, the final confirmation of what had been so

long suspected, in a short telegram from Basil, dispatched immediately

he had left Downing Street.

Mr. Byars and Helena had been kept well acquainted with every step in

the progress of the investigation.

Ever since Gortre had left Walktown, after his holiday visit, his

suspicions had been ringing in the vicar's ears.

Then, when the matter had been communicated to Sir Michael and Father

Ripon, when Spence had started, and Mr. Byars knew that all the powers

of wealth and intellect were at work, his hopes revived.

The vicar's faith had never for a single moment wavered.

In the crash of the creeds his deep conviction never wavered.

The light burned steadily before the altar.

He had been one of the faithful thousands, learned, simple, Methodist,

ritualist, who _knew_ that this thing could not be.

Nevertheless his courage had been failing him. Life seemed to have lost

its sweetness, and often he humbly wondered when he should die, hoping

that the time was not too long--not without a tremulous belief that God

would recognise that he had fought the good fight and kept the faith.

In his own immediate neighbourhood the consequences of the "Discovery"

nearly broke his heart. He had no need to look beyond Walktown. Even the

great political events which were stirring the world had left him

unmoved. His own small corner of the vineyard, now, alas! so choked with

rank, luxuriant growth, was enough for this faithful pastor. Here he saw

nothing but vice suddenly rearing its head and threatening to overwhelm

all else. He heard the Holy Names blasphemed with all the inventions of

obscene imaginations, assailed with all the wit of full-blooded men

amazed and rejoiced that they could stifle their consciences at last.

And this after all his life-work among these folk! He had given them of

his best. His prayers, his intellect, much of his money had been theirs.

How insolently they had exulted over him, these coarse and vulgar

hearts!

When Basil had first told Mr. Byars of his suspicions the vicar can

hardly have been blamed for regarding them sadly as the generous effects

of a young and ardent soul seeking to find an _immediate_ way out of the

_impasse_.

The elder man knew that fraud had been at work, but he suspected no such

modern and insolent attempt as Basil indicated. It was too much to

believe. Gortre had left him most despondent.

But his interest had soon become quickened and alive, as the private

reports from London reached him.

When he knew that great people were moving quietly, that the weight of

Sir Michael was behind Gortre, he knew at once that in all probability

Basil's suspicions were right.

A curious change came over the vicar's public appearances and

utterances. His sermons were full of fire, almost Pauline in their

strength. People began to flow and flock into the great empty church at

Walktown. Mr. Byars's fame spread.

Then, swiftly, after the first week or two, had come the beginning of

the great financial depression.

It was felt acutely in Manchester.

All the wealthy, comfortable, easy-going folk who grudgingly paid a

small pew-rent out of their superfluity became alarmed, horribly

alarmed. The Christianity which had sat so lightly upon them that at

first opportunity they had rushed into the Unitarian meeting-houses

became suddenly a very desirable thing.

In the fall of Christianity they saw their own fortunes falling. And

these self-deceivers would be swept back upon the tide of this reaction

into the arms of the Anglican mother they had despised.

The vicar saw all this. He was a keen expert in, and student of, human

affairs, and withal a psychologist. He saw his opportunity.

His words lashed and stung these renegades. They were made to see

themselves as they were; the preacher cut away all the ground from under

them. They were left face to face with naked shame.

What puzzled and yet uplifted the congregation at St. Thomas's was their

vicar's extraordinary _certainty_ that the spiritual darkness over the

land was shortly to be removed.

It was commented on, keenly observed, greatly wondered at.

"Mr. Byars speaks," said Mr. Pryde, a wealthy solicitor, "as if he had

some private information about this Palestine discovery. He is so

confident that he magnetises one into his own state of mind, and Byars

is not a very emotional man either. His conviction is _real_. It's not

hysteria."

And, being a shrewd, silent man, the solicitor formed his own

conclusions, but said nothing of them.

The church continued full of worshippers.

* * * * *

When the news from Basil came, the vicar was sitting before the fire in

his lighted study. He had been expecting the telegram all day.

His brain had been haunted by the picture of that distinguished figure

with the dark red hair he had so often met.

Again he saw the millionaire standing in his drawing-room proffering

money for scholarships. And in Dieppe also!

How well and clearly he saw the huge figure of the _savant_ in his coat

of astrachan, with his babble of soups and _entrée_!

Try as he would, the vicar could not hate these two men. The sin, the

awful sin, yes, a thousand times. Horror could not be stretched far

enough, no hatred could be too great for such immensity of crime.

But in his great heart, in his large, human nature there was a Divine

_pity_ for this wretched pair. He could not help it. It was part of him.

He wondered if he were not erring in feeling pity. Was not this, indeed,

that mysterious sin against the Holy Ghost for which there was no

forgiveness? Was it not said of Judas that for his deed he should lie

for ever in hell?

The telegram was brought in by a neat, unconcerned housemaid.

Then the vicar got up and locked the inner door of his study. He knelt

in prayer and thanksgiving.

It was a moment of intense spiritual communion with the Unseen.

This good man, who had given his vigorous life and active intellect to

God, knelt humbly at his study table while a joy and happiness not of

this earth filled all his soul.

At that supreme moment, when the sense of the glorious vindication of

Christ flooded the priest's whole being with ecstasy, he knew, perhaps,

a faint foreshadowing of the life the Blessed live in Heaven.

For a few brief moments that imperfect instrument, the human body, was

permitted a glimpse, a flash of the eternal joy prepared for the saints

of God.

The vicar drew very near the Veil.

Helena beat at the door; he opened to her, the tall, gracious lady.

She saw the news in her father's face.

They embraced with deep and silent emotion.

* * * * *

Two hours later the vicarage was full of people.

The news had arrived.

Special editions of the evening papers were being shouted through the

streets. Downing Street had spoken, and in Manchester--as in almost

every great city in England--the Truth was pulsing and throbbing in the

air, spreading from house to house, from heart to heart.

Every one knew it in Walktown now.

There was a sudden unanimous rush of people to the vicarage.

Each big, luxurious house all round sent out its eager owners into the

night.

They came to show the pastor, who had not failed them in the darkness,

their joy and gratitude now that light had come at last.

How warm and hearty these North-country people were! Mr. Byars had never

penetrated so deeply beneath the somewhat forbidding crust of manner and

surface-hardness before.

Mingled with the sense of shame and misery at their own lukewarmness,

there was a fine and genuine desire to show the vicar how they honoured

him for his steadfastness.

"You've been an example to all of us, vicar," said a hard-faced,

brassy-voiced cotton-spinner, a kindly light in his eyes, his lips

somewhat tremulous.

"We haven't done as we ought to by t' church," said another, "but you'll

see that altered, Mr. Byars. Eh! but our faith has been weak! There'll

be many a Christian's heart full of shame and sorrow for the past months

this night, I'm thinking."

They crowded round him, this knot of expensively dressed people,

hard-faced and harsh-spoken, with a warmth and contrition which moved

the old man inexpressibly.

Never before had he been so near to them. Dimly he began to think he saw

a wise and awful purpose of God, who had allowed this iniquity and

calamity that the faith of the world might be strengthened.

"We'll never forget what you've done for us, Mr. Byars."

"If we've been lukewarm before, vicar, 't will be all boiling now!"

"Praise God that He has spoken at last, and God forgive us for

forgetting Him."

The air was electric with love and praise.

"Will you say a prayer, vicar?" asked one of the churchwardens. "It

seems the time for prayer and a word or two like."

The company knelt down.

It was a curious scene. In the richly furnished drawing-room the group

of portly men and matrons knelt at chairs and sofas, stolid,

respectable, and middle-aged.

But here and there a shoulder shook with suppressed emotion, a faint sob

was heard. This, to many of them there, was the greatest spiritual

moment they had ever known. Confirmation, communion, all the episodic

mile-stones of the professing Christian's life had been experienced and

passed decorously enough. But the inward fire had not been there. The

deep certainty of God's mysterious commune with the brain, the deep love

for Christ which glows so purely and steadfastly among the saints still

on earth--these were coming to them now.

And, even as the fires of the Paraclete had descended upon the Apostles

many centuries before, so now the Holy Spirit began to stir and move

these Christians at Walktown.

The vicar offered up the joy and thanks of his people. He prayed that,

in His mercy, God would never again let such extreme darkness descend

upon the world. Even as He had said, "Neither will I again smite any

more every thing living, as I have done."

He prayed that all those who had been cast into spiritual darkness, or

who had left the fold of Christ, might now return to it with contrite

hearts and be in peace.

Finally, they said the Lord's Prayer with deep feeling, and the vicar

blessed them.

And for each one there that night became a precious, helpful memory

which remained with them for many years.

Afterwards, while servants brought coffee, always the accompaniment to

any sort of function in Walktown, the talk broke out into a hushed

amazement.

The news which had been telegraphed everywhere consisted of a statement

signed by the Secretary of State and the archbishops that the discovery

in Palestine was a forgery executed by Sir Robert Llwellyn at the

instigation of Constantine Schuabe.

"Ample and completely satisfying evidence is in our possession," so the

wording ran. "We render heartfelt gratitude to Almighty God that He has

in His wisdom caused this black conspiracy to be discovered. The thanks

of the whole world, the gratitude of all Christians, must be for those

devoted and faithful men who have been the instruments of Providence in

discovering the Truth. Sir Michael Manichoe, the Rev. Basil Gortre, the

Rev. Arthur Ripon, and Mr. Harold Spence have alone dispelled the clouds

that have hung over the Christian world."

It was a frightful shock to these people to know how a great magnate

among them, a business _confrère_, the member for their own division, an

intimate, should have done this thing.

As long as the world lasted the Owner of Mount Prospect who had spoken

on their platforms would be accursed. It was too startling to realise at

once; the thought only became familiar gradually, in little jerks, as

one aspect after another presented itself to their minds.

It was incredible that this antichrist had been long housed among them

but a mile from where they stood.

"What will they do to him?"

"Who can say! There's never been a case like it before, you see."

"Well, the paper doesn't say, but I expect they've got them safe enough

in London--Mr. Schuabe and the other fellow."

"Just to think of our Mr. Gortre helping to find it out! Pity we ever

let him go away from the parish church."

"They can't do less than make him a bishop, I should think."

"Miss Byars, you ought to be proud of your young man. There's many folk

blessing him in England this night."

And so on, and so forth; simple, homely speeches, not indeed free from a

somewhat hard commercial view, but informed with kindliness and

gratitude.

At last, one by one, they went away. It was close upon midnight when the

last visitor had departed.

The vicar read a psalm to his daughter:

"_Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to

thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast

prepared before the face of all people._"

Basil was to come to them on the morrow for a long stay.

EPILOGUE

IN THREE PICTURES

NOTE.--_The three pictures all synchronise. The episodes they

portray take place five years after the day upon which Sir Robert

Llwellyn died._--G. T.

I. THE GRAVE

Two figures walked over the cliffs.

The day was wild and stormy. Huge clouds, bursting with sombre light,

sailed over the pewter-coloured sea. The bleak magnificence of the moor

stretched away in endless billows, as sad and desolate as the sea on

which no sail was to be seen.

The wayfarers turned out of the struggle of the bitter wind into a

slight depression. A few scattered cottages began to come into the field

of their vision.

Soon they saw the whitewashed buildings of a coast-guard station and the

high, square tower of a church.

"So it's all settled, Spence," said one of the men, a tall, noble-faced

man, dressed as a clerk in Holy Orders.

"Yes, Father Ripon," Spence said. "They have offered me the paper. It

was one of poor Ommaney's last wishes. Of course, we were injured in our

circulation by the fact that we were the first to publish the news of

the great forgery. But in two years Ommaney had brought the paper to the

front again. He was wonderful, the first editor of his age.

"I was there with Folliott Farmer and the doctors when he died. Fancy,

it was the first time I had ever been in his flat, though we had worked

together all these years! The simplest place you ever saw. Just a couple

of rooms, where he slept all the daytime. No luxury, hardly even

comfort. Ommaney had no existence apart from his work. He'd saved nearly

all his very large salary for many years. I am an executor of his will.

He left a legacy to Farmer, and to me also, and the rest to the

Institute of Journalists. But I am persuaded that he did not care in the

least what happened to his money. He never did. He wasn't mean in any

way, but he worked all night and slept all day, and simply hadn't any

use for money. A good-hearted man, a very brilliant editor, but utterly

detached from any _personal_ contact with life."

Father Ripon's keen face, still as eager and powerful as before, set

into lines of thought.

He sighed a little. "A modern product," he said at length. "A modern

product, a sign of the times. Well, Spence, a power is entrusted to you

now such as no priest can enjoy. I pray that your editorship of this

great paper will be fine. Try to be fine always. I believe that the Holy

Spirit will be with you."

They rose up towards the moor again. "There's the church," said Spence,

"where she lies buried. Gortre sees that the grave is kept beautiful

with flowers. It was an odd impulse of yours, Father, to propose this

visit."

"I do odd things sometimes," said the priest, simply. "I thought that

the sight of this poor woman's resting-place might remind you and me of

what has passed, of what she did for the world--though no one knows it

but our group of friends. I hope that it will remind us, remind you very

solemnly, my friend, in your new responsibility, of what Christ means to

the world. The shadows of the time of darkness, 'When it Was Dark'

during the 'Horror of Great Darkness,' have gone from us. And this poor

sister did this for her Saviour's sake."

They stood by Gertrude Hunt's grave as they spoke.

A slender copper cross rose above it, some six feet high.

"I wonder how the poor girl managed it," said Spence at length; "her

letter was wonderfully complete. Sir Michael--Lord Fencastle, I

mean--showed it me some years ago. She was wonderfully adroit. I suppose

Llwellyn had left papers about or something. But I do wonder how she did

it."

"That," said Father Ripon, "was what she would never tell anybody."

"_Requiescat in pace_," said Spence.

"In Paradise with Saint Mary of Magdala," the priest said softly.

THE SECOND PICTURE

_Quem Deus Vult Perdere._

The chaplain of the county asylum stood by the castellated red brick

lodge at the end of the asylum drive, talking to a group of young

ladies.

The drive, which stretched away nearly a quarter of a mile to the

enormous buildings of the asylum, with their lofty towers and warm,

florid architecture, was edged with rhododendrons and other shrubs.

The gardens were beautifully kept. Everything was mathematically

straight and clean, almost luxurious, indeed.

The girls were three in number, young, fashionably dressed. They talked

without ceasing in an empty-headed stream of girlish chatter.

They were the daughters of a great ironfounder in the district, and

would each have a hundred thousand pounds.

The chaplain was showing them over the asylum.

"How sweet of you, Mr. Pritchard, to show us everything!" said one of

the girls. "It's awfully thrilling. I suppose we shall be quite safe

from the violent ones?"

"Oh, yes," said the chaplain, "you will only see those from a distance;

we keep them well locked up, I assure you."

The girls laughed with him.

The party went laughing through the long, spotless corridors, peeping

into the bright, airy living-rooms, where bodies without brains were

mumbling and singing to each other.

The imbecile who moved vacantly with slobbering lip, the dementia

patient, the log-like, general paralytic--"G. P."--_things_ which must

be fed, the barred and dangerous maniac, they saw them all with pleasant

thrills of horror, disgust, and sometimes with laughter.

"Oh, Grace, _do_ look at that funny little fat one in the corner--the

one with his tongue hanging out! Isn't he _weird_?"

"There's one actually _reading_! He _must_ be only pretending!"

A young doctor joined them--a handsome Scotchman with pleasant manners.

For a time the lunatics were forgotten.

"Well, now, have we seen _all_, Doctor Steward?" one of the girls said.

"All the worst cases? It's really quite a new sensation, you know, and I

always go in for new sensations."

"Did ye show the young leddies Schuabe?" said the doctor to the

chaplain.

"Bless my soul!" he replied, "I must be going mad myself. I'd quite

forgotten to show you Schuabe."

"Who is Schuabe?" said the youngest of the sisters, a girl just fresh

from school at Saint Leonards.

"Oh, _Maisie_!" said the eldest. "Surely you remember. Why, it's only

five years ago. He was the Manchester millionaire who went mad after

trying to blow up the tomb of Christ. I think that was it. It was in all

the papers. A young clergyman found out what he'd been trying to do, and

then he went mad--this Schuabe creature, I mean, not the clergyman."

"Every one likes to have a look at this patient," said the doctor. "He

has a little sleeping-room of his own and a special attendant. His money

was all confiscated by order of the Government, but they allow two

hundred a year for him. Otherwise he would be among the paupers."

The girls giggled with pleasurable anticipation.

The doctor unlocked a door. The party entered a fairly large room,

simply furnished. In an arm-chair a uniformed attendant was sitting,

reading a sporting paper.

The man sprang up and saluted as he heard the door open.

On a bed lay the idiot. He had grown very fat and looked healthy. The

features were all coarsened, but the hair retained its colour of dark

red.

He was sleeping.

"Now, Miss Clegg, ye'd never think that was the fellow that made such a

stir in the world but five years since. But there he lies. He always

eats as much as he can, and goes to sleep after his meal. He's waking up

now, sir. Here, Mr. Schuabe, some ladies have come to see you."

_It_ got up with a foolish grin and began some ungainly capers.

"Thank you _so_ much, Mr. Pritchard," the girls said as they left the

building. "We've enjoyed ourselves so much."

"I liked the little man with his tongue hanging out the best," said one.

"Oh, Mabel, you've _no_ sense of humour! That Schuabe creature was the

funniest of _all_!"

THE THIRD PICTURE

A Sunday evensong. The grim old Lancashire church of Walktown is full of

people. The galleries are crowded, every seat in the aisles below is

packed.

This night, Easter night, the church looks less forbidding. The harsh

note is gone, something of the supreme joy of Holy Easter has driven it

away.

Old Mr. Byars sits in his stall. He is tired by the long, happy day, and

as the choir sings the last verse of the hymn before the sermon he sits

down.

The delicate, intellectual face is a little pinched and transparent. Age

has come, but it is to this faithful priest but as the rare bloom upon

the fruits of peace and quiet.

How the thunderous voices peal in exultation!

Alleluia!

Christ is risen! The old man turned his head. His eyes were full of

happy tears. He saw his daughter, a young and noble matron now, standing

in a pew close to the chancel steps. He heard her pure voice, full of

triumph. Christ is risen!

From his oak chair behind the altar rails Dean Gortre came down towards

the pulpit.

Young still--strangely young for the dignity which they had pressed on

him for two years before he would accept it--Basil ascended the steps.

Christ is risen!

The organ crashed; there was silence.

All the lights in the church were suddenly lowered to half their height.

The two candles in the pulpit shone brightly on the preacher's face.

They all saw that it was filled with holy fire.

Christ is risen!

"IF CHRIST BE NOT RISEN YOUR FAITH IS VAIN"

The church was absolutely still as the words of the text rang out into

it.

The people were thinking humbly, with contrite hearts, of the shame five

years ago.

"Would that our imagination, under the conduct of Christian faith,

could even faintly realise the scene when the Human Soul of Our

Lord came with myriads of attendant angels to the grave of Joseph,

to claim the Body that had hung upon the cross.

"To-night, with the promise and warrant of our own resurrection

that His has given us, our thoughts involuntarily turn to those we

call the dead. We feel that this Easter is for them also an

occasion of rejoicing, and that the happiness of the earthly Church

is shared by the loving and beloved choir behind the veil.

"Christ is risen! Away with the illusions which may have kept us

from Him. Let us also arise and live. For, as the spouse sings in

the Canticles, 'The winter is past, ... the time of the singing of

birds is come; ... arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!'"

Christ is risen!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This article has already been seen in the preceding chapter.

[2] This particular instance of the Nurié woman is _not_ all fiction. An

incident much resembling it actually occurred to a well-known writer on

the intimate life of Eastern peoples. For the purposes of the narrative

the _locale_ has been changed from the Jaffa Road--where the event took

place--to Jerusalem itself.

THE END

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Punctuation has been silently corrected where there are obvious errors.

Words with hyphens and accents have been standardised.

Italics are indicated by underscores _like this_.

Words in Greek script are indicated by equals-signs, =like this=.

The following corrections of typographical errors have been made:

"refined and, artistic" to "refined and artistic" (p.3)

"tolerent" to tolerant" (p. 29)

"it forget to jeer" to "it forgot to jeer" (p. 49)

"Salonika cigarrette" to "Salonika cigarette" (p. 53)

"forty thousands pounds" to "forty thousand pounds" (p. 67)

"volumn" to "volume" (p. 72)

"lines cames out upon it" to "lines came out upon it" (p. 90)

"weathly banker" to "wealthy banker" (p. 107)

"Dieppe its true significance" to "Dieppe--its true significance"

(p. 108)

"become more resonant" to "became more resonant" (p. 112)

"Schaube" to "Schuabe" (p. 193)

"Sanhedrim of the great" to "Sanhedrin of the great" (p. 235)

"Neirsteiner" to "Niersteiner" (p. 242)

"in amazemen" to "in amazement" (p. 261)

"Sir Ulang Pass" to "Sri Ulang Pass" (p. 293)

"rising but of the sea" to "rising out of the sea" (p. 323)

"Exellency" to "Excellency" (p. 350)

"the lastest visitor" to "the last visitor" (p. 384)