2. _The Siamese Twin of a Bomb-Thrower_

The events previously related in 'The Mystery of the Five Hundred

Diamonds' led to my dismissal by the French Government. It was not

because I had arrested an innocent man; I had done that dozens of

times before, with nothing said about it. It was not because I had

followed a wrong clue, or because I had failed to solve the mystery of

the five hundred diamonds. Every detective follows a wrong clue now

and then, and every detective fails more often than he cares to admit.

No. All these things would not have shaken my position, but the

newspapers were so fortunate as to find something humorous in the

case, and for weeks Paris rang with laughter over my exploits and my

defeat. The fact that the chief French detective had placed the most

celebrated English detective into prison, and that each of them were

busily sleuth-hounding a bogus clue, deliberately flung across their

path by an amateur, roused all France to great hilarity. The

Government was furious. The Englishman was released and I was

dismissed. Since the year 1893 I have been a resident of London.

When a man is, as one might say, the guest of a country, it does not

become him to criticise that country. I have studied this strange

people with interest, and often with astonishment, and if I now set

down some of the differences between the English and the French, I

trust that no note of criticism of the former will appear, even when

my sympathies are entirely with the latter. These differences have

sunk deeply into my mind, because, during the first years of my stay

in London my lack of understanding them was often a cause of my own

failure when I thought I had success in hand. Many a time did I come

to the verge of starvation in Soho, through not appreciating the

peculiar trend of mind which causes an Englishman to do inexplicable

things--that is, of course, from my Gallic standpoint.

For instance, an arrested man is presumed to be innocent until he is

proved guilty. In England, if a murderer is caught red-handed over his

victim, he is held guiltless until the judge sentences him. In France

we make no such foolish assumption, and although I admit that innocent

men have sometimes been punished, my experience enables me to state

very emphatically that this happens not nearly so often as the public

imagines. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an innocent man can at

once prove his innocence without the least difficulty. I hold it is

his duty towards the State to run the very slight risk of unjust

imprisonment in order that obstacles may not be thrown in the way of

the conviction of real criminals. But it is impossible to persuade an

Englishman of this. _Mon Dieu!_ I have tried it often enough.

Never shall I forget the bitterness of my disappointment when I

captured Felini, the Italian anarchist, in connection with the

Greenwich Park murder. At this time--it gives me no shame to confess

it--I was myself living in Soho, in a state of extreme poverty. Having

been employed so long by the French Government, I had formed the

absurd idea that the future depended on my getting, not exactly a

similar connection with Scotland Yard, but at least a subordinate

position on the police force which would enable me to prove my

capabilities, and lead to promotion. I had no knowledge, at that time,

of the immense income which awaited me entirely outside the Government

circle. Whether it is contempt for the foreigner, as has often been

stated, or that native stolidity which spells complacency, the British

official of any class rarely thinks it worth his while to discover the

real cause of things in France, or Germany, or Russia, but plods

heavily on from one mistake to another. Take, for example, those

periodical outbursts of hatred against England which appear in the

Continental Press. They create a dangerous international situation,

and more than once have brought Britain to the verge of a serious war.

Britain sternly spends millions in defence and preparation, whereas,

if she would place in my hand half a million pounds I would guarantee

to cause Britannia to be proclaimed an angel with white wings in every

European country.

When I attempted to arrive at some connection with Scotland Yard, I

was invariably asked for my credentials. When I proclaimed that I had

been chief detective to the Republic of France, I could see that this

announcement made a serious impression, but when I added that the

Government of France had dismissed me without credentials,

recommendation, or pension, official sympathy with officialism at once

turned the tables against me. And here I may be pardoned for pointing

out another portentous dissimilarity between the two lands which I

think is not at all to the credit of my countrymen.

I was summarily dismissed. You may say it was because I failed, and it

is true that in the case of the Queen's necklace I had undoubtedly

failed, but, on the other hand, I had followed unerringly the clue

which lay in my path, and although the conclusion was not in

accordance with the facts, it was in accordance with logic. No, I was

not dismissed because I failed. I had failed on various occasions

before, as might happen to any man in any profession. I was dismissed

because I made France for the moment the laughing-stock of Europe and

America. France dismissed me because France had been laughed at. No

Frenchman can endure the turning of a joke against him, but the

Englishman does not appear to care in the least. So far as failure is

concerned, never had any man failed so egregiously as I did with

Felini, a slippery criminal who possessed all the bravery of a

Frenchman and all the subtlety of an Italian. Three times he was in my

hands--twice in Paris, once in Marseilles--and each time he escaped

me; yet I was not dismissed.

When I say that Signor Felini was as brave as a Frenchman, perhaps I

do him a little more than justice. He was desperately afraid of one

man, and that man was myself. Our last interview in France he is not

likely to forget, and although he eluded me, he took good care to get

into England as fast as train and boat could carry him, and never

again, while I was at the head of the French detective force, did he

set foot on French soil. He was an educated villain, a graduate of the

University of Turin, who spoke Spanish, French, and English as well as

his own language, and this education made him all the more dangerous

when he turned his talents to crime.

Now, I knew Felini's handiwork, either in murder or in housebreaking,

as well as I know my own signature on a piece of white paper, and as

soon as I saw the body of the murdered man in Greenwich Park I was

certain Felini was the murderer. The English authorities at that time

looked upon me with a tolerant, good-natured contempt.

Inspector Standish assumed the manner of a man placing at my disposal

plenty of rope with which I might entangle myself. He appeared to

think me excitable, and used soothing expressions as if I were a

fractious child to be calmed, rather than a sane equal to be reasoned

with. On many occasions I had the facts at my finger ends, while he

remained in a state of most complacent ignorance, and though this

attitude of lowering himself to deal gently with one whom he

evidently looked upon as an irresponsible lunatic was most

exasperating, I nevertheless claim great credit for having kept my

temper with him. However, it turned out to be impossible for me to

overcome his insular prejudice. He always supposed me to be a

frivolous, volatile person, and so I was unable to prove myself of any

value to him in his arduous duties.

The Felini instance was my last endeavour to win his favour. Inspector

Standish appeared in his most amiable mood when I was admitted to his

presence, and this in spite of the fact that all London was ringing

with the Greenwich Park tragedy, while the police possessed not the

faintest idea regarding the crime or its perpetrator. I judged from

Inspector Standish's benevolent smile that I was somewhat excited when

I spoke to him, and perhaps used many gestures which seemed

superfluous to a large man whom I should describe as immovable, and

who spoke slowly, with no motion of the hand, as if his utterances

were the condensed wisdom of the ages.

'Inspector Standish,' I cried, 'is it within your power to arrest a

man on suspicion?'

'Of course it is,' he replied; 'but we must harbour the suspicion

before we make the arrest.'

'Have confidence in me,' I exclaimed. 'The man who committed the

Greenwich Park murder is an Italian named Felini.'

I gave the address of the exact room in which he was to be found, with

cautions regarding the elusive nature of this individual. I said that

he had been three times in my custody, and those three times he had

slipped through my fingers. I have since thought that Inspector

Standish did not credit a word I had spoken.

'What is your proof against this Italian?' asked the Inspector slowly.

'The proof is on the body of the murdered man, but, nevertheless, if

you suddenly confront Felini with me without giving him any hint of

whom he is going to meet, you shall have the evidence from his own

lips before he recovers from his surprise and fright.'

Something of my confidence must have impressed the official, for the

order of arrest was made. Now, during the absence of the constable

sent to bring in Felini, I explained to the inspector fully the

details of my plan. Practically he did not listen to me, for his head

was bent over a writing-pad on which I thought he was taking down my

remarks, but when I had finished he went on writing as before, so I

saw I had flattered myself unnecessarily. More than two hours passed

before the constable returned, bringing with him the trembling

Italian. I swung round in front of him, and cried, in a menacing

voice:--

'Felini! Regard me! You know Valmont too well to trifle with him! What

have you to say of the murder in Greenwich Park?'

I give you my word that the Italian collapsed, and would have fallen

to the floor in a heap had not the constables upheld him with hands

under each arm. His face became of a pasty whiteness, and he began to

stammer his confession, when this incredible thing happened, which

could not be believed in France. Inspector Standish held up his

finger.

'One moment,' he cautioned solemnly, 'remember that whatever you say

will be used against you!'

The quick, beady black eyes of the Italian shot from Standish to me,

and from me to Standish. In an instant his alert mind grasped the

situation. Metaphorically I had been waved aside. I was not there in

any official capacity, and he saw in a moment with what an opaque

intellect he had to deal. The Italian closed his mouth like a steel

trap, and refused to utter a word. Shortly after he was liberated, as

there was no evidence against him. When at last complete proof was in

the tardy hands of the British authorities, the agile Felini was safe

in the Apennine mountains, and today is serving a life sentence in

Italy for the assassination of a senator whose name I have forgotten.

Is it any wonder that I threw up my hands in despair at finding myself

amongst such a people. But this was in the early days, and now that I

have greater experience of the English, many of my first opinions have

been modified.

I mention all this to explain why, in a private capacity, I often did

what no English official would dare to do. A people who will send a

policeman, without even a pistol to protect him, to arrest a desperate

criminal in the most dangerous quarter of London, cannot be

comprehended by any native of France, Italy, Spain, or Germany. When I

began to succeed as a private detective in London, and had accumulated

money enough for my project, I determined not to be hampered by this

unexplainable softness of the English toward an accused person. I

therefore reconstructed my flat, and placed in the centre of it a dark

room strong as any Bastille cell. It was twelve feet square, and

contained no furniture except a number of shelves, a lavatory in one

corner, and a pallet on the floor. It was ventilated by two flues

from the centre of the ceiling, in one of which operated an electric

fan, which, when the room was occupied, sent the foul air up that

flue, and drew down fresh air through the other. The entrance to this

cell opened out from my bedroom, and the most minute inspection would

have failed to reveal the door, which was of massive steel, and was

opened and shut by electric buttons that were partially concealed by

the head of my bed. Even if they had been discovered, they would have

revealed nothing, because the first turn of the button lit the

electric light at the head of my bed; the second turn put it out; and

this would happen as often as the button was turned to the right. But

turn it three times slowly to the left, and the steel door opened. Its

juncture was completely concealed by panelling. I have brought many a

scoundrel to reason within the impregnable walls of that small room.

Those who know the building regulations of London will wonder how it

was possible for me to delude the Government inspector during the

erection of this section of the Bastille in the midst of the modern

metropolis. It was the simplest thing in the world. Liberty of the

subject is the first great rule with the English people, and thus many

a criminal is allowed to escape. Here was I laying plans for the

contravening of this first great rule, and to do so I took advantage

of the second great rule of the English people, which is, that

property is sacred. I told the building authorities I was a rich man

with a great distrust of banks, and I wished to build in my flat a

safe or strong-room in which to deposit my valuables. I built then

such a room as may be found in every bank, and many private premises

of the City, and a tenant might have lived in my flat for a year and

never suspected the existence of this prison. A railway engine might

have screeched its whistle within it, and not a sound would have

penetrated the apartments that surrounded it unless the door were

open.

But besides M. Eugène Valmont, dressed in elegant attire as if he were

still a boulevardier of Paris, occupier of the top floor in the

Imperial Flats, there was another Frenchman in London to whom I must

introduce you, namely, Professor Paul Ducharme, who occupied a squalid

back room in the cheapest and most undesirable quarter of Soho.

Valmont flatters himself he is not yet middle-aged, but poor Ducharme

does not need his sparse gray beard to proclaim his advancing years.

Valmont vaunts an air of prosperity; Ducharme wears the shabby

habiliments and the shoulder-stoop of hopeless poverty. He shuffles

cringingly along the street, a compatriot not to be proud of. There

are so many Frenchmen anxious to give lessons in their language, that

merely a small living is to be picked up by any one of them. You will

never see the spruce Valmont walking alongside the dejected Ducharme.

'Ah!' you exclaim, 'Valmont in his prosperity has forgotten those less

fortunate of his nationality.'

Pardon, my friends, it is not so. Behold, I proclaim to you, the

exquisite Valmont and the threadbare Ducharme are one and the same

person. That is why they do not promenade together. And, indeed, it

requires no great histrionic art on my part to act the rôle of the

miserable Ducharme, for when I first came to London, I warded off

starvation in this wretched room, and my hand it was that nailed to

the door the painted sign 'Professor Paul Ducharme, Teacher of the

French Language'. I never gave up the room, even when I became

prosperous and moved to Imperial Flats, with its concealed chamber of

horrors unknown to British authority. I did not give up the Soho

chamber principally for this reason: Paul Ducharme, if the truth were

known about him, would have been regarded as a dangerous character;

yet this was a character sometimes necessary for me to assume. He was

a member of the very inner circle of the International, an anarchist

of the anarchists. This malign organisation has its real headquarters

in London, and we who were officials connected with the Secret Service

of the Continent have more than once cursed the complacency of the

British Government which allows such a nest of vipers to exist

practically unmolested. I confess that before I came to know the

English people as well as I do now, I thought that this complacency

was due to utter selfishness, because the anarchists never commit an

outrage in England. England is the one spot on the map of Europe where

an anarchist cannot be laid by the heels unless there is evidence

against him that will stand the test of open court. Anarchists take

advantage of this fact, and plots are hatched in London which are

executed in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, or Madrid. I know now that this

leniency on the part of the British Government does not arise from

craft, but from their unexplainable devotion to their shibboleth--'The

liberty of the subject.' Time and again France has demanded the

extradition of an anarchist, always to be met with the question,--

'Where is your proof?'

I know many instances where our certainty was absolute, and also cases

where we possessed legal proof as well, but legal proof which, for one

reason or another, we dared not use in public; yet all this had no

effect on the British authorities. They would never give up even the

vilest criminal except on publicly attested legal evidence, and not

even then, if the crime were political.

During my term of office under the French Government, no part of my

duties caused me more anxiety than that which pertained to the

political secret societies. Of course, with a large portion of the

Secret Service fund at my disposal, I was able to buy expert

assistance, and even to get information from anarchists themselves.

This latter device, however, was always more or less unreliable. I

have never yet met an anarchist I could believe on oath, and when one

of them offered to sell exclusive information to the police, we rarely

knew whether he was merely trying to get a few francs to keep himself

from starving, or whether he was giving us false particulars which

would lead us into a trap. I have always regarded our dealings with

nihilists, anarchists, or other secret associations for the

perpetrating of murder as the most dangerous service a detective is

called upon to perform. Yet it is absolutely necessary that the

authorities should know what is going on in these secret conclaves.

There are three methods of getting this intelligence. First,

periodical raids upon the suspected, accompanied by confiscation and

search of all papers found. This method is much in favour with the

Russian police. I have always regarded it as largely futile; first,

because the anarchists are not such fools, speaking generally, as to

commit their purposes to writing; and, second, because it leads to

reprisal. Each raid is usually followed by a fresh outbreak of

activity on the part of those left free. The second method is to bribe

an anarchist to betray his comrades. I have never found any difficulty

in getting these gentry to accept money. They are eternally in need,

but I usually find the information they give in return to be either

unimportant or inaccurate. There remains, then, the third method,

which is to place a spy among them. The spy battalion is the forlorn

hope of the detective service. In one year I lost three men on

anarchist duty, among the victims being my most valuable helper, Henri

Brisson. Poor Brisson's fate was an example of how a man may follow a

perilous occupation for months with safety, and then by a slight

mistake bring disaster on himself. At the last gathering Brisson

attended he received news of such immediate and fateful import that on

emerging from the cellar where the gathering was held, he made

directly for my residence instead of going to his own squalid room in

the Rue Falgarie. My concierge said that he arrived shortly after one

o'clock in the morning, and it would seem that at this hour he could

easily have made himself acquainted with the fact that he was

followed. Still, as there was on his track that human panther, Felini,

it is not strange poor Brisson failed to elude him.

Arriving at the tall building in which my flat was then situated,

Brisson rang the bell, and the concierge, as usual, in that strange

state of semi-somnolence which envelops concierges during the night,

pulled the looped wire at the head of his bed, and unbolted the door.

Brisson assuredly closed the huge door behind him, and yet the moment

before he did so, Felini must have slipped in unnoticed to the

stone-paved courtyard. If Brisson had not spoken and announced

himself, the concierge would have been wide awake in an instant. If he

had given a name unknown to the concierge, the same result would have

ensued. As it was he cried aloud 'Brisson,' whereupon the concierge of

the famous chief of the French detective staff, Valmont, muttered

'_Bon_! and was instantly asleep again.

Now Felini had known Brisson well, but it was under the name of

Revensky, and as an exiled Russian. Brisson had spent all his early

years in Russia, and spoke the language like a native. The moment

Brisson had uttered his true name he had pronounced his own death

warrant. Felini followed him up to the first landing--my rooms were on

the second floor--and there placed his sign manual on the unfortunate

man, which was the swift downward stroke of a long, narrow, sharp

poniard, entering the body below the shoulders, and piercing the

heart. The advantage presented by this terrible blow is that the

victim sinks instantly in a heap at the feet of his slayer, without

uttering a moan. The wound left is a scarcely perceptible blue mark

which rarely even bleeds. It was this mark I saw on the body of the

Maire of Marseilles, and afterwards on one other in Paris besides poor

Brisson. It was the mark found on the man in Greenwich Park; always

just below the left shoulder-blade, struck from behind. Felini's

comrades claim that there was this nobility in his action, namely, he

allowed the traitor to prove himself before he struck the blow. I

should be sorry to take away this poor shred of credit from Felini's

character, but the reason he followed Brisson into the courtyard was

to give himself time to escape. He knew perfectly the ways of the

concierge. He knew that the body would lie there until the morning, as

it actually did, and that this would give him hours in which to effect

his retreat. And this was the man whom British law warned not to

incriminate himself! What a people! What a people!

After Brisson's tragic death, I resolved to set no more valuable men

on the track of the anarchists, but to place upon myself the task in

my moments of relaxation. I became very much interested in the

underground workings of the International. I joined the organisation

under the name of Paul Ducharme, a professor of advanced opinions, who

because of them had been dismissed his situation in Nantes. As a

matter of fact there had been such a Paul Ducharme, who had been so

dismissed, but he had drowned himself in the Loire, at Orleans, as the

records show. I adopted the precaution of getting a photograph of this

foolish old man from the police at Nantes, and made myself up to

resemble him. It says much for my disguise that I was recognised as

the professor by a delegate from Nantes, at the annual Convention held

in Paris, which I attended, and although we conversed for some time

together he never suspected that I was not the professor, whose fate

was known to no one but the police of Orleans. I gained much credit

among my comrades because of this encounter, which, during its first

few moments, filled me with dismay, for the delegate from Nantes held

me up as an example of a man well off, who had deliberately sacrificed

his worldly position for the sake of principle. Shortly after this I

was chosen delegate to carry a message to our comrades in London, and

this delicate undertaking passed off without mishap.

It was perhaps natural then, that when I came to London after my

dismissal by the French Government, I should assume the name and

appearance of Paul Ducharme, and adopt the profession of French

teacher. This profession gave me great advantages. I could be absent

from my rooms for hours at a time without attracting the least

attention, because a teacher goes wherever there are pupils. If any of

my anarchist comrades saw me emerging shabbily from the grand Imperial

Flats where Valmont lived, he greeted me affably, thinking I was

coming from a pupil.

The sumptuous flat was therefore the office in which I received my

rich clients, while the squalid room in Soho was often the workshop in

which the tasks entrusted to me were brought to completion.

* * * * *

I now come to very modern days indeed, when I spent much time with the

emissaries of the International.

It will be remembered that the King of England made a round of visits

to European capitals, the far-reaching results of which in the

interest of peace we perhaps do not yet fully understand and

appreciate. His visit to Paris was the beginning of the present

_entente cordiale_, and I betray no confidence when I say that this

brief official call at the French capital was the occasion of great

anxiety to the Government of my own country and also of that in which

I was domiciled. Anarchists are against all government, and would like

to see each one destroyed, not even excepting that of Great Britain.

My task in connection with the visit of King Edward to Paris was

entirely unofficial. A nobleman, for whom on a previous occasion I had

been so happy as to solve a little mystery which troubled him,

complimented me by calling at my flat about two weeks before the

King's entry into the French capital. I know I shall be pardoned if I

fail to mention this nobleman's name. I gathered that the intended

visit of the King met with his disapproval. He asked if I knew

anything, or could discover anything, of the purposes animating the

anarchist clubs of Paris, and their attitude towards the royal

function, which was now the chief topic in the newspapers. I replied

that within four days I would be able to submit to him a complete

report on the subject. He bowed coldly and withdrew. On the evening of

the fourth day I permitted myself the happiness of waiting upon his

lordship at his West End London mansion.

'I have the honour to report to your lordship,' I began, 'that the

anarchists of Paris are somewhat divided in their opinions regarding

His Majesty's forthcoming progress through that city. A minority,

contemptible in point of number, but important so far as the extremity

of their opinions are concerned, has been trying--'

'Excuse me,' interrupted the nobleman, with some severity of tone,

'are they going to attempt to injure the King or not?'

'They are not, your lordship,' I replied, with what, I trust, is my

usual urbanity of manner, despite his curt interpolation. 'His most

gracious Majesty will suffer no molestation, and their reason for

quiescence--'

'Their reasons do not interest me,' put in his lordship gruffly. 'You

are sure of what you say?'

'Perfectly sure, your lordship.'

'No precautions need be taken?'

'None in the least, your lordship.'

'Very well,' concluded the nobleman shortly, 'if you tell my secretary

in the next room as you go out how much I owe you, he will hand you a

cheque,' and with that I was dismissed.

I may say that, mixing as I do with the highest in two lands, and

meeting invariably such courtesy as I myself am always eager to

bestow, a feeling almost of resentment arose at this cavalier

treatment. However, I merely bowed somewhat ceremoniously in silence,

and availed myself of the opportunity in the next room to double my

bill, which was paid without demur.

Now, if this nobleman had but listened, he would have heard much that

might interest an ordinary man, although I must say that during my

three conversations with him his mind seemed closed to all outward

impressions save and except the grandeur of his line, which he traced

back unblemished into the northern part of my own country.

The King's visit had come as a surprise to the anarchists, and they

did not quite know what to do about it. The Paris Reds were rather in

favour of a demonstration, while London bade them, in God's name, to

hold their hands, for, as they pointed out, England is the only refuge

in which an anarchist is safe until some particular crime can be

imputed to him, and what is more, proven up to the hilt.

It will be remembered that the visit of the King to Paris passed off

without incident, as did the return visit of the President to London.

On the surface all was peace and goodwill, but under the surface

seethed plot and counterplot, and behind the scenes two great

governments were extremely anxious, and high officials in the Secret

Service spent sleepless nights. As no 'untoward incident' had

happened, the vigilance of the authorities on both sides of the

Channel relaxed at the very moment when, if they had known their

adversaries, it should have been redoubled. Always beware of the

anarchist when he has been good: look out for the reaction. It annoys

him to be compelled to remain quiet when there is a grand opportunity

for strutting across the world's stage, and when he misses the

psychological moment, he is apt to turn 'nasty', as the English say.

When it first became known that there was to be a Royal procession

through the streets of Paris, a few fanatical hot-heads, both in that

city and in London, wished to take action, but they were overruled by

the saner members of the organisation. It must not be supposed that

anarchists are a band of lunatics. There are able brains among them,

and these born leaders as naturally assume control in the underground

world of anarchy as would have been the case if they had devoted their

talents to affairs in ordinary life. They were men whose minds, at one

period, had taken the wrong turning. These people, although they

calmed the frenzy of the extremists, nevertheless regarded the

possible _rapprochement_ between England and France with grave

apprehension. If France and England became as friendly as France and

Russia, might not the refuge which England had given to anarchy become

a thing of the past? I may say here that my own weight as an anarchist

while attending these meetings in disguise under the name of Paul

Ducharme was invariably thrown in to help the cause of moderation. My

rôle, of course, was not to talk too much; not to make myself

prominent, yet in such a gathering a man cannot remain wholly a

spectator. Care for my own safety led me to be as inconspicuous as

possible, for members of communities banded together against the laws

of the land in which they live, are extremely suspicious of one

another, and an inadvertent word may cause disaster to the person

speaking it.

Perhaps it was this conservatism on my part that caused my advice to

be sought after by the inner circle; what you might term the governing

body of the anarchists; for, strange as it may appear, this

organisation, sworn to put down all law and order, was itself most

rigidly governed, with a Russian prince elected as its chairman, a man

of striking ability, who, nevertheless, I believe, owed his election

more to the fact that he was a nobleman than to the recognition of his

intrinsic worth. And another point which interested me much was that

this prince ruled his obstreperous subjects after the fashion of

Russian despotism, rather than according to the liberal ideas of the

country in which he was domiciled. I have known him more than once

ruthlessly overturn the action of the majority, stamp his foot, smite

his huge fist on the table, and declare so and so should not be done,

no matter what the vote was. And the thing was not done, either.

At the more recent period of which I speak, the chairmanship of the

London anarchists was held by a weak, vacillating man, and the mob had

got somewhat out of hand. In the crisis that confronted us, I yearned

for the firm fist and dominant boot of the uncompromising Russian. I

spoke only once during this time, and assured my listeners that they

had nothing to fear from the coming friendship of the two nations. I

said the Englishman was so wedded to his grotesque ideas regarding the

liberty of the subject he so worshipped absolute legal evidence, that

we would never find our comrades disappear mysteriously from England

as had been the case in continental countries.

Although restless during the exchange of visits between King and

President, I believe I could have carried the English phalanx with me,

if the international courtesies had ended there. But after it was

announced that members of the British Parliament were to meet the

members of the French Legislature, the Paris circle became alarmed,

and when that conference did not end the _entente_, but merely paved

the way for a meeting of business men belonging to the two countries

in Paris, the French anarchists sent a delegate over to us, who made a

wild speech one night, waving continually the red flag. This aroused

all our own malcontents to a frenzy. The French speaker practically

charged the English contingent with cowardice; said that as they were

safe from molestation, they felt no sympathy for their comrades in

Paris, at any time liable to summary arrest and the torture of the

secret cross-examination. This Anglo-French love-feast must be wafted

to the heavens in a halo of dynamite. The Paris anarchists were

determined, and although they wished the co-operation of their London

brethren, yet if the speaker did not bring back with him assurance of

such co-operation, Paris would act on its own initiative.

The Russian despot would have made short work of this blood-blinded

rhetoric, but alas, he was absent, and an overwhelming vote in favour

of force was carried and accepted by the trembling chairman. My French

_confrère_ took back with him to Paris the unanimous consent of the

English comrades to whom he had appealed. All that was asked of the

English contingent was that it should arrange for the escape and safe

keeping of the assassin who flung the bomb into the midst of the

English visitors, and after the oratorical madman had departed, I, to

my horror, was chosen to arrange for the safe transport and future

custody of the bomb-thrower. It is not etiquette in anarchist circles

for any member to decline whatever task is given him by the vote of

his comrades. He knows the alternative, which is suicide. If he

declines the task and still remains upon earth, the dilemma is solved

for him, as the Italian Felini solved it through the back of my

unfortunate helper Brisson. I therefore accepted the unwelcome office

in silence, and received from the treasurer the money necessary for

carrying out the same.

I realised for the first time since joining the anarchist association

years before that I was in genuine danger. A single false step, a

single inadvertent word, might close the career of Eugène Valmont, and

at the same moment terminate the existence of the quiet, inoffensive

Paul Ducharme, teacher of the French language. I knew perfectly well I

should be followed. The moment I received the money the French

delegate asked when they were to expect me in Paris. He wished to know

so that all the resources of their organisation might be placed at my

disposal. I replied calmly enough that I could not state definitely on

what day I should leave England. There was plenty of time, as the

business men's representatives from London would not reach Paris for

another two weeks. I was well known to the majority of the Paris

organisation, and would present myself before them on the first night

of my arrival. The Paris delegate exhibited all the energy of a new

recruit, and he seemed dissatisfied with my vagueness, but I went on

without heeding his displeasure. He was not personally known to me,

nor I to him, but if I may say so, Paul Ducharme was well thought of

by all the rest of those present.

I had learned a great lesson during the episode of the Queen's

Necklace, which resulted in my dismissal by the French Government. I

had learned that if you expect pursuit it is always well to leave a

clue for the pursuer to follow. Therefore I continued in a low

conversational tone:--

'I shall want the whole of tomorrow for myself: I must notify my

pupils of my absence. Even if my pupils leave me it will not so much

matter. I can probably get others. But what does matter is my

secretarial work with Monsieur Valmont of the Imperial Flats. I am

just finishing for him the translation of a volume from French into

English, and tomorrow I can complete the work, and get his permission

to leave for a fortnight. This man, who is a compatriot of my own,

has given me employment ever since I came to London. From him I have

received the bulk of my income, and if it had not been for his

patronage, I do not know what I should have done. I not only have no

desire to offend him, but I wish the secretarial work to continue when

I return to London.'

There was a murmur of approval at this. It was generally recognised

that a man's living should not be interfered with, if possible.

Anarchists are not poverty-stricken individuals, as most people think,

for many of them hold excellent situations, some occupying positions

of great trust, which is rarely betrayed.

It is recognised that a man's duty, not only to himself, but to the

organisation, is to make all the money he can, and thus not be liable

to fall back on the relief fund. This frank admission of my dependence

on Valmont made it all the more impossible that anyone there listening

should suspect that it was Valmont himself who was addressing the

conclave.

'You will then take the night train tomorrow for Paris?' persisted the

inquisitive French delegate.

'Yes, and no. I shall take the night train, and it shall be for Paris,

but not from Charing Cross, Victoria, or Waterloo. I shall travel on

the 8.30 Continental express from Liverpool Street to Harwich, cross

to the Hook of Holland, and from there make my way to Paris through

Holland and Belgium. I wish to investigate that route as a possible

path for our comrade to escape. After the blow is struck, Calais,

Boulogne, Dieppe, and Havre will be closely watched. I shall perhaps

bring him to London by way of Antwerp and the Hook.'

These amiable disclosures were so fully in keeping with Paul

Ducharme's reputation for candour and caution that I saw they made an

excellent impression on my audience, and here the chairman intervened,

putting an end to further cross-examination by saying they all had the

utmost confidence in the judgment of Monsieur Paul Ducharme, and the

Paris delegate might advise his friends to be on the lookout for the

London representative within the next three or four days.

I left the meeting and went directly to my room in Soho, without even

taking the trouble to observe whether I was watched or not. There I

stayed all night, and in the morning quitted Soho as Ducharme, with a

gray beard and bowed shoulders, walked west to the Imperial Flats,

took the lift to the top, and, seeing the corridor was clear, let

myself in to my own flat. I departed from my flat promptly at six

o'clock, again as Paul Ducharme, carrying this time a bundle done up

in brown paper under my arm, and proceeded directly to my room in

Soho. Later I took a bus, still carrying my brown paper parcel, and

reached Liverpool Street in ample time for the Continental train. By a

little private arrangement with the guard, I secured a compartment for

myself, although up to the moment the train left the station, I could

not be sure but that I might be compelled to take the trip to the Hook

of Holland after all. If any one had insisted on coming into my

compartment, I should have crossed the North Sea that night. I knew I

should be followed from Soho to the station, and that probably the spy

would go as far as Harwich, and see me on the boat. It was doubtful if

he would cross. I had chosen this route for the reason that we have no

organisation in Holland: the nearest circle is in Brussels, and if

there had been time, the Brussels circle would have been warned to

keep an eye on me. There was, however, no time for a letter, and

anarchists never use the telegraph, especially so far as the Continent

is concerned, unless in cases of the greatest emergency. If they

telegraphed my description to Brussels the chances were it would not

be an anarchist who watched my landing, but a member of the Belgian

police force.

The 8.30 Continental express does not stop between Liverpool Street

and Parkeston Quay, which it is timed to reach three minutes before

ten. This gave me an hour and a half in which to change my apparel.

The garments of the poor old professor I rolled up into a ball one by

one and flung out through the open window, far into the marsh past

which we were flying in a pitch dark night. Coat, trousers, and

waistcoat rested in separate swamps at least ten miles apart. Gray

whiskers and gray wig I tore into little pieces, and dropped the bits

out of the open window.

I had taken the precaution to secure a compartment in the front of

the train, and when it came to rest at Parkeston Quay Station, the

crowd, eager for the steamer, rushed past me, and I stepped out into

the midst of it, a dapper, well-dressed young man, with black beard

and moustaches, my own closely cropped black hair covered by a new

bowler hat. Anyone looking for Paul Ducharme would have paid small

attention to me, and to any friend of Valmont's I was equally

unrecognisable.

I strolled in leisurely manner to the Great Eastern Hotel on the Quay,

and asked the clerk if a portmanteau addressed to Mr. John Wilkins had

arrived that day from London. He said 'Yes,' whereupon I secured a

room for the night, as the last train had already left for the

metropolis.

Next morning, Mr. John Wilkins, accompanied by a brand new and rather

expensive portmanteau, took the 8.57 train for Liverpool Street, where

he arrived at half-past ten, stepped into a cab, and drove to the

Savoy Restaurant, lunching there with the portmanteau deposited in the

cloak room. When John Wilkins had finished an excellent lunch in a

leisurely manner at the Café Parisien of the Savoy, and had paid his

bill, he did not go out into the Strand over the rubber-paved court by

which he had entered, but went through the hotel and down the stairs,

and so out into the thoroughfare facing the Embankment. Then turning

to his right he reached the Embankment entrance of the Hotel Cecil.

This leads into a long, dark corridor, at the end of which the lift

may be rung for. It does not come lower than the floor above unless

specially summoned. In this dark corridor, which was empty, John

Wilkins took off the black beard and moustache, hid it in the inside

pocket of his coat, and there went up into the lift a few moments

later to the office floor, I, Eugène Valmont, myself for the first

time in several days.

Even then I did not take a cab to my flat, but passed under the arched

Strand front of the 'Cecil' in a cab, bound for the residence of that

nobleman who had formerly engaged me to see after the safety of the

King.

You will say that this was all very elaborate precaution to take when

a man was not even sure he was followed. To tell you the truth, I do

not know to this day whether anyone watched me or not, nor do I care.

I live in the present: when once the past is done with, it ceases to

exist for me. It is quite possible, nay, entirely probable, that no

one tracked me farther than Liverpool Street Station the night before,

yet it was for lack of such precaution that my assistant Brisson

received the Italian's dagger under his shoulder blade fifteen years

before. The present moment is ever the critical time; the future is

merely for intelligent forethought. It was to prepare for the future

that I was now in a cab on the way to my lord's residence. It was not

the French anarchists I feared during the contest in which I was about

to become engaged, but the Paris police. I knew French officialdom too

well not to understand the futility of going to the authorities there

and proclaiming my object. If I ventured to approach the chief of

police with the information that I, in London, had discovered what it

was his business in Paris to know, my reception would be far from

cordial, even though, or rather because, I announced myself as Eugène

Valmont. The exploits of Eugène had become part of the legends of

Paris, and these legends were extremely distasteful to those men in

power. My doings have frequently been made the subject of feuilletons

in the columns of the Paris Press, and were, of course, exaggerated by

the imagination of the writers, yet, nevertheless, I admit I did some

good strokes of detection during my service with the French

Government. It is but natural, then, that the present authorities

should listen with some impatience when the name of Eugène Valmont is

mentioned. I recognise this as quite in the order of things to be

expected, and am honest enough to confess that in my own time I often

hearkened to narratives regarding the performances of Lecocq with a

doubting shrug of the shoulders.

Now, if the French police knew anything of this anarchist plot, which

was quite within the bounds of possibility, and if I were in

surreptitious communication with the anarchists, more especially with

the man who was to fling the bomb, there was every chance I might find

myself in the grip of French justice. I must, then, provide myself

with credentials to show that I was acting, not against the peace and

quiet of my country, but on the side of law and order. I therefore

wished to get from the nobleman a commission in writing, similar to

that command which he had placed upon me during the King's visit. This

commission I should lodge at my bank in Paris, to be a voucher for me

at the last extremity. I had no doubt his lordship would empower me to

act in this instance as I had acted on two former occasions.

* * * * *

Perhaps if I had not lunched so well I might have approached his

lordship with greater deference than was the case; but when ordering

lunch I permitted a bottle of Château du Tertre, 1878, a most

delicious claret, to be decanted carefully for my delectation at the

table, and this caused a genial glow to permeate throughout my system,

inducing a mental optimism which left me ready to salute the greatest

of earth on a plane of absolute equality. Besides, after all, I am the

citizen of a Republic.

The nobleman received me with frigid correctness, implying disapproval

of my unauthorised visit, rather than expressing it. Our interview was

extremely brief.

'I had the felicity of serving your lordship upon two occasions,' I

began.

'They are well within my recollection,' he interrupted, 'but I do not

remember sending for you a third time.'

'I have taken the liberty of coming unrequested, my lord, because of

the importance of the news I carry. I surmise that you are interested

in the promotion of friendship between France and England.'

'Your surmise, sir, is incorrect. I care not a button about it. My

only anxiety was for the safety of the King.'

Even the superb claret was not enough to fortify me against words so

harsh, and tones so discourteous, as those his lordship permitted

himself to use.

'Sir,' said I, dropping the title in my rising anger, 'it may interest

you to know that a number of your countrymen run the risk of being

blown to eternity by an anarchist bomb in less than two weeks from

today. A party of business men, true representatives of a class to

which the pre-eminence of your Empire is due, are about to proceed--'

'Pray spare me,' interpolated his lordship wearily, 'I have read that

sort of thing so often in the newspapers. If all these estimable City

men are blown up, the Empire would doubtless miss them, as you hint,

but I should not, and their fate does not interest me in the least,

although you did me the credit of believing that it would. Thompson,

you will show this person out? Sir, if I desire your presence here in

future I will send for you.'

'You may send for the devil!' I cried, now thoroughly enraged, the

wine getting the better of me.

'You express my meaning more tersely than I cared to do,' he replied

coldly, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

Entering the cab I now drove to my flat, indignant at the reception I

had met with. However, I knew the English people too well to malign

them for the action of one of their number, and resentment never

dwells long with me. Arriving at my rooms I looked through the

newspapers to learn all I could of the proposed business men's

excursion to Paris, and in reading the names of those most prominent

in carrying out the necessary arrangements, I came across that of W.

Raymond White, which caused me to sit back in my chair and wrinkle my

brow in an endeavour to stir my memory. Unless I was much mistaken, I

had been so happy as to oblige this gentleman some dozen or thirteen

years before. As I remembered him, he was a business man who engaged

in large transactions with France, dealing especially in Lyons and

that district. His address was given in the newspaper as Old Change,

so at once I resolved to see him. Although I could not recall the

details of our previous meeting, if, indeed, he should turn out to be

the same person, yet the mere sight of the name had produced a mental

pleasure, as a chance chord struck may bring a grateful harmony to the

mind. I determined to get my credentials from Mr. White if possible,

for his recommendation would in truth be much more valuable than that

of the gruff old nobleman to whom I had first applied, because, if I

got into trouble with the police of Paris, I was well enough

acquainted with the natural politeness of the authorities to know that

a letter from one of the city's guests would secure my instant

release.

I took a hansom to the head of that narrow thoroughfare known as Old

Change, and there dismissed my cab. I was so fortunate as to recognise

Mr. White coming out of his office. A moment later, and I should have

missed him.

'Mr. White,' I accosted him, 'I desire to enjoy both the pleasure and

the honour of introducing myself to you.'

'Monsieur,' replied Mr. White with a smile, 'the introduction is not

necessary, and the pleasure and honour are mine. Unless I am very much

mistaken, this is Monsieur Valmont of Paris?'

'Late of Paris,' I corrected.

'Are you no longer in Government service then?'

'For a little more than ten years I have been a resident of London.'

'What, and have never let me know? That is something the diplomatists

call an unfriendly act, monsieur. Now, shall we return to my office,

or go to a café?'

'To your office, if you please, Mr. White. I come on rather important

business.'

Entering his private office the merchant closed the door, offered me a

chair, and sat down himself by his desk. From the first he had

addressed me in French, which he spoke with an accent so pure that it

did my lonesome heart good to hear it.

'I called upon you half a dozen years ago,' he went on, 'when I was

over in Paris on a festive occasion, where I hoped to secure your

company, but I could not learn definitely whether you were still with

the Government or not.'

'It is the way of the French officialism,' I replied. 'If they knew my

whereabouts they would keep the knowledge to themselves.'

'Well, if you have been ten years in London, Monsieur Valmont, we may

now perhaps have the pleasure of claiming you as an Englishman; so I

beg you will accompany us on another festive occasion to Paris next

week. Perhaps you have seen that a number of us are going over there

to make the welkin ring.'

'Yes; I have read all about the business men's excursion to Paris, and

it is with reference to this journey that I wish to consult you,' and

here I gave Mr. White in detail the plot of the anarchists against the

growing cordiality of the two countries. The merchant listened quietly

without interruption until I had finished; then he said,--'I suppose

it will be rather useless to inform the police of Paris?'

'Indeed, Mr. White, it is the police of Paris I fear more than the

anarchists. They would resent information coming to them from the

outside, especially from an ex-official, the inference being that they

were not up to their own duties. Friction and delay would ensue until

the deed was inevitable. It is quite on the cards that the police of

Paris may have some inkling of the plot, and in that case, just before

the event, they are reasonably certain to arrest the wrong men. I

shall be moving about Paris, not as Eugène Valmont, but as Paul

Ducharme, the anarchist; therefore, there is some danger that as a

stranger and a suspect I may be laid by the heels at the critical

moment. If you would be so good as to furnish me with credentials

which I can deposit somewhere in Paris in case of need, I may thus be

able to convince the authorities that they have taken the wrong man.'

Mr. White, entirely unperturbed by the prospect of having a bomb thrown

at him within two weeks, calmly wrote several documents, then turned

his untroubled face to me, and said, in a very confidential, winning

tone:--'Monsieur Valmont, you have stated the case with that clear

comprehensiveness pertaining to a nation which understands the

meaning of words, and the correct adjustment of them; that felicity of

language which has given France the first place in the literature of

nations. Consequently, I think I see very clearly the delicacies of

the situation. We may expect hindrances, rather than help, from

officials on either side of the Channel. Secrecy is essential to

success. Have you spoken of this to anyone but me?'

'Only to Lord Blank,' I replied; 'and now I deeply regret having made

a confidant of him.'

'That does not in the least matter,' said Mr. White, with a smile;

'Lord Blank's mind is entirely occupied by his own greatness. Chemists

tell me that you cannot add a new ingredient to a saturated solution;

therefore your revelation will have made no impression upon his

lordship's intellect. He has already forgotten all about it. Am I

right in supposing that everything hinges on the man who is to throw

the bomb?'

'Quite right, sir. He may be venal, he may be traitorous, he may be a

coward, he may be revengeful, he may be a drunkard. Before I am in

conversation with him for ten minutes, I shall know what his weak spot

is. It is upon that spot I must act, and my action must be delayed

till the very last moment; for, if he disappears too long before the

event, his first, second, or third substitute will instantly step into

his place.'

'Precisely. So you cannot complete your plans until you have met this

man?'

'_Parfaitement._'

'Then I propose,' continued Mr. White, 'that we take no one into our

confidence. In a case like this there is little use in going before a

committee. I can see that you do not need any advice, and my own part

shall be to remain in the background, content to support the most

competent man that could have been chosen to grapple with a very

difficult crisis.'

I bowed profoundly. There was a compliment in his glance as well as in

his words. Never before had I met so charming a man.

'Here,' he continued, handing me one of the papers he had written, 'is

a letter to whom it may concern, appointing you my agent for the next

three weeks, and holding myself responsible for all you see fit to do.

Here,' he went on, passing to me a second sheet, 'is a letter of

introduction to Monsieur Largent, the manager of my bank in Paris, a

man well known and highly respected in all circles, both official and

commercial. I suggest that you introduce yourself to him, and he will

hold himself in readiness to respond to any call you may make, night

or day. I assure you that his mere presence before the authorities

will at once remove any ordinary difficulty. And now,' he added,

taking in hand the third slip of paper, speaking with some hesitation,

and choosing his words with care, 'I come to a point which cannot be

ignored. Money is a magician's wand, which, like faith, will remove

mountains. It may also remove an anarchist hovering about the route of

a business man's procession.'

He now handed to me what I saw was a draft on Paris for a thousand

pounds.

'I assure you, monsieur,' I protested, covered with confusion, 'that

no thought of money was in my mind when I took the liberty of

presenting myself to you. I have already received more than I could

have expected in the generous confidence you were good enough to

repose in me, as exhibited by these credentials, and especially the

letter to your banker. Thanks to the generosity of your countrymen, Mr

White, of which you are a most notable example, I am in no need of

money.'

'Monsieur Valmont, I am delighted to hear that you have got on well

amongst us. This money is for two purposes. First, you will use what

you need. I know Paris very well, monsieur, and have never found gold

an embarrassment there. The second purpose is this: I suggest that

when you present the letter of introduction to Monsieur Largent, you

will casually place this amount to your account in his bank. He will

thus see that besides writing you a letter of introduction, I transfer

a certain amount of my own balance to your credit. That will do you no

harm with him, I assure you. And now, Monsieur Valmont, it only

remains for me to thank you for the opportunity you have given me, and

to assure you that I shall march from the Gare du Nord without a

tremor, knowing the outcome is in such capable custody.'

And then this estimable man shook hands with me in action the most

cordial. I walked away from Old Change as if I trod upon air; a

feeling vastly different from that with which I departed from the

residence of the old nobleman in the West End but a few hours before.

* * * * *

Next morning I was in Paris, and next night I attended the underground

meeting of the anarchists, held within a quarter of a mile of the

Luxembourg. I was known to many there assembled, but my acquaintance

of course was not so large as with the London circle. They had half

expected me the night before, knowing that even going by the Hook of

Holland I might have reached Paris in time for the conclave. I was

introduced generally to the assemblage as the emissary from England,

who was to assist the bomb-throwing brother to escape either to that

country, or to such other point of safety as I might choose. No

questions were asked me regarding my doings of the day before, nor was

I required to divulge the plans for my fellow-member's escape. I was

responsible; that was enough. If I failed through no fault of my own,

it was but part of the ill-luck we were all prepared to face. If I

failed through treachery, then a dagger in the back at the earliest

possible moment. We all knew the conditions of our sinister contract,

and we all recognised that the least said the better.

The cellar was dimly lighted by one oil lamp depending from the

ceiling. From this hung a cord attached to an extinguisher, and one

jerk of the cord would put out the light. Then, while the main entry

doors were being battered down by police, the occupants of the room

escaped through one of three or four human rat-holes provided for that

purpose.

If any Parisian anarchist does me the honour to read these jottings, I

beg to inform him that while I remained in office under the Government

of France there was never a time when I did not know the exit of each

of these underground passages, and could during any night there was

conference have bagged the whole lot of those there assembled. It was

never my purpose, however, to shake the anarchists' confidence in

their system, for that merely meant the removal of the gathering to

another spot, thus giving us the additional trouble of mapping out

their new exits and entrances. When I did make a raid on anarchist

headquarters in Paris, it was always to secure some particular man. I

had my emissaries in plain clothes stationed at each exit. In any

case, the rats were allowed to escape unmolested, sneaking forth with

great caution into the night, but we always spotted the man we wanted,

and almost invariably arrested him elsewhere, having followed him from

his kennel. In each case my uniformed officers found a dark and empty

cellar, and retired apparently baffled. But the coincidence that on

the night of every raid some member there present was secretly

arrested in another quarter of Paris, and perhaps given a free passage

to Russia, never seemed to awaken suspicion in the minds of the

conspirators.

I think the London anarchists' method is much better, and I have ever

considered the English nihilist the most dangerous of this fraternity,

for he is cool-headed and not carried away by his own enthusiasm, and

consequently rarely carried away by his own police. The authorities of

London meet no opposition in making a raid. They find a well-lighted

room containing a more or less shabby coterie playing cards at cheap

pine tables. There is no money visible, and, indeed, very little coin

would be brought to light if the whole party were searched; so the

police are unable to convict the players under the Gambling Act.

Besides, it is difficult in any case to obtain a conviction under the

Gambling Act, because the accused has the sympathy of the whole

country with him. It has always been to me one of the anomalies of the

English nature that a magistrate can keep a straight face while he

fines some poor wretch for gambling, knowing that next race day (if

the court is not sitting) the magistrate himself, in correct sporting

costume, with binoculars hanging at his hip, will be on the lawn by

the course backing his favourite horse.

After my reception at the anarchists' club of Paris, I remained seated

unobtrusively on a bench waiting until routine business was finished,

after which I expected an introduction to the man selected to throw

the bomb. I am a very sensitive person, and sitting there quietly I

became aware that I was being scrutinised with more than ordinary

intensity by someone, which gave me a feeling of uneasiness. At last,

in the semi-obscurity opposite me I saw a pair of eyes as luminous as

those of a tiger peering fixedly at me. I returned the stare with such

composure as I could bring to my aid, and the man, as if fascinated by

a look as steady as his own, leaned forward, and came more and more

into the circle of light.

Then I received a shock which it required my utmost self-control to

conceal. The face, haggard and drawn, was none other than that of

Adolph Simard, who had been my second assistant in the Secret Service

of France during my last year in office. He was a most capable and

rising young man at that time, and, of course, he knew me well. Had

he, then, penetrated my disguise? Such an event seemed impossible; he

could not have recognised my voice, for I had said nothing aloud

since entering the room, my few words to the president being spoken in

a whisper. Simard's presence there bewildered me; by this time he

should be high up in the Secret Service. If he were now a spy, he

would, of course, wish to familiarise himself with every particular of

my appearance, as in my hands lay the escape of the criminal. Yet, if

such were his mission, why did he attract the attention of all members

by this open-eyed scrutiny? That he recognised me as Valmont I had not

the least fear; my disguise was too perfect; and, even if I were there

in my own proper person, I had not seen Simard, nor he me, for ten

years, and great changes occur in a man's appearance during so long a

period. Yet I remembered with disquietude that Mr. White recognised me,

and here tonight I had recognised Simard. I could not move my bench

farther back because it stood already against the wall.

Simard, on the contrary, was seated on one of the few chairs in the

room, and this he periodically hitched forward, the better to continue

his examination, which now attracted the notice of others besides

myself. As he came forward, I could not help admiring the completeness

of his disguise so far as apparel was concerned. He was a perfect

picture of the Paris wastrel, and what was more, he wore on his head a

cap of the Apaches, the most dangerous band of cut-throats that have

ever cursed a civilised city. I could understand that even among

lawless anarchists this badge of membership of the Apache band might

well strike tenor. I felt that before the meeting adjourned I must

speak with him, and I determined to begin our conversation by asking

him why he stared so fixedly at me. Yet even then I should have made

little progress. I did not dare to hint that he belonged to the Secret

Service; nevertheless, if the authorities had this plot in charge, it

was absolutely necessary we should work together, or, at least, that I

should know they were in the secret, and steer my course accordingly.

The fact that Simard appeared with undisguised face was not so

important as might appear to an outsider.

It is always safer for a spy to preserve his natural appearance if

that is possible, because a false beard or false moustache or wig run

the risk of being deranged or torn away. As I have said, an anarchist

assemblage is simply a room filled with the atmosphere of suspicion. I

have known instances where an innocent stranger was suddenly set upon

in the midst of solemn proceedings by two or three impetuous

fellow-members, who nearly jerked his own whiskers from his face

under the impression that they were false. If Simard, therefore,

appeared in his own scraggy beard and unkempt hair it meant that he

communicated with headquarters by some circuitous route. I realised,

therefore, that a very touchy bit of diplomacy awaited me if I was to

learn from himself his actual status. While I pondered over this

perplexity, it was suddenly dissolved by the action of the president,

and another substituted for it.

'Will Brother Simard come forward?' asked the president.

My former subordinate removed his eyes from me, slowly rose from his

chair, and shuffled up to the president's table.

'Brother Ducharme,' said that official to me in a quiet tone, 'I

introduce you to Brother Simard, whom you are commissioned to see into

a place of safety when he has dispersed the procession.'

Simard turned his fishy goggle eyes upon me, and a grin disclosed

wolf-like teeth. He held out his hand, which, rising to my feet, I

took. He gave me a flabby grasp, and all the time his inquiring eyes

travelled over me.

'You don't look up to much,' he said. 'What are you?'

'I am a teacher of the French language in London.'

'Umph!' growled Simard, evidently in no wise prepossessed by my

appearance. 'I thought you weren't much of a fighter. The gendarmes

will make short work of this fellow,' he growled to the chairman.

'Brother Ducharme is vouched for by the whole English circle,' replied

the president firmly.

'Oh, the English! I think very little of them. Still, it doesn't

matter,' and with a shrug of the shoulders he shuffled to his seat

again, leaving me standing there in a very embarrassed state of mind;

my brain in a whirl. That the man was present with his own face was

bewildering enough, but that he should be here under his own name was

simply astounding. I scarcely heard what the president said. It seemed

to the effect that Simard would take me to his own room, where we

might talk over our plans. And now Simard rose again from his chair,

and said to the president that if nothing more were wanted of him, we

should go. Accordingly we left the place of meeting together. I

watched my comrade narrowly. There was now a trembling eagerness in

his action, and without a word he hurried me to the nearest café,

where we sat down before a little iron table on the pavement.

'Garçon!' he shouted harshly, 'bring me four absinthes. What will you

drink, Ducharme?',

'A café-cognac, if you please.'

'Bah!' cried Simard; 'better have absinthe.'

Then he cursed the waiter for his slowness. When the absinthe came he

grasped the half-full glass and swallowed the liquid raw, a thing I

had never seen done before. Into the next measure of the wormwood he

poured the water impetuously from the carafe, another thing I had

never seen done before, and dropped two lumps of sugar into it. Over

the third glass he placed a flat perforated plated spoon, piled the

sugar on this bridge, and now quite expertly allowed the water to drip

through, the proper way of concocting this seductive mixture.

Finishing his second glass he placed the perforated spoon over the

fourth, and began now more calmly sipping the third while the water

dripped slowly into the last glass.

Here before my eyes was enacted a more wonderful change than the

gradual transformation of transparent absinthe into an opaque

opalescent liquid. Simard, under the influence of the drink, was

slowly becoming the Simard I had known ten years before. Remarkable!

Absinthe having in earlier years made a beast of the man was now

forming a man out of the beast. His staring eyes took on an expression

of human comradeship. The whole mystery became perfectly clear to me

without a question asked or an answer uttered. This man was no spy,

but a genuine anarchist. However it happened, he had become a victim

of absinthe, one of many with whom I was acquainted, although I never

met any so far sunk as he. He was into his fourth glass, and had

ordered two more when he began to speak.

'Here's to us,' he cried, with something like a civilised smile on his

gaunt face. 'You're not offended at what I said in the meeting, I

hope?'

'Oh, no,' I answered.

'That's right. You see, I once belonged to the Secret Service, and if

my chief was there today, we would soon find ourselves in a cool

dungeon. We couldn't trip up Eugène Valmont.'

At these words, spoken with sincerity, I sat up in my chair, and I am

sure such an expression of enjoyment came into my face that if I had

not instantly suppressed it, I might have betrayed myself.

'Who was Eugène Valmont?' I asked, in a tone of assumed indifference.

Mixing his fifth glass he nodded sagely.

'You wouldn't ask that question if you'd been in Paris a dozen years

ago. He was the Government's chief detective, and he knew more of

anarchists, yes, and of Apaches, too, than either you or I do. He had

more brains in his little finger than that whole lot babbling there

tonight. But the Government being a fool, as all governments are,

dismissed him, and because I was his assistant, they dismissed me as

well. They got rid of all his staff. Valmont disappeared. If I could

have found him, I wouldn't be sitting here with you tonight; but he

was right to disappear. The Government did all they could against us

who had been his friends, and I for one came through starvation, and

was near throwing myself in the Seine, which sometimes I wish I had

done. Here, garçon, another absinthe. But by-and-by I came to like the

gutter, and here I am. I'd rather have the gutter and absinthe than

the Luxembourg without it. I've had my revenge on the Government many

times since, for I knew their ways, and often have I circumvented the

police. That's why they respect me among the anarchists. Do you know

how I joined? I knew all their passwords, and walked right into one of

their meetings, alone and in rags.

'"Here am I," I said; "Adolph Simard, late second assistant to Eugène

Valmont, chief detective to the French Government."

'There were twenty weapons covering me at once, but I laughed.

'"I'm starving," I cried, "and I want something to eat, and more

especially something to drink. In return for that I'll show you every

rat-hole you've got. Lift the president's chair, and there's a

trap-door that leads to the Rue Blanc. I'm one of you, and I'll tell

you the tricks of the police."

'Such was my initiation, and from that moment the police began to pick

their spies out of the Seine, and now they leave us alone. Even

Valmont himself could do nothing against the anarchists since I have

joined them.'

Oh, the incredible self-conceit of human nature! Here was this ruffian

proclaiming the limitations of Valmont, who half an hour before had

shaken his hand within the innermost circle of his order! Yet my heart

warmed towards the wretch who had remembered me and my exploits.

It now became my anxious and difficult task to lure Simard away from

this café and its absinthe. Glass after glass of the poison had

brought him up almost to his former intellectual level, but now it

was shoving him rapidly down the hill again. I must know where his

room was situated, yet if I waited much longer the man would be in a

state of drunken imbecility which would not only render it impossible

for him to guide me to his room, but likely cause both of us to be

arrested by the police. I tried persuasion, and he laughed at me; I

tried threats, whereat he scowled and cursed me as a renegade from

England. At last the liquor overpowered him, and his head sunk on the

metal table and the dark blue cap fell to the floor.

* * * * *

I was in despair, but now received a lesson which taught me that if a

man leaves a city, even for a short time, he falls out of touch with

its ways. I called the waiter, and said to him,--

'Do you know my friend here?'

'I do not know his name,' replied the garçon, 'but I have seen him

many times at this café. He is usually in this state when he has

money.'

'Do you know where he lives? He promised to take me with him, and I am

a stranger in Paris.'

'Have no discontent, monsieur. Rest tranquil; I will intervene.'

With this he stepped across the pavement in front of the café, into

the street, and gave utterance to a low, peculiar whistle. The café

was now nearly deserted, for the hour was very late, or, rather, very

early. When the waiter returned I whispered to him in some anxiety,--

'Not the police, surely?'

'But no!' he cried in scorn; 'certainly not the police.'

He went on unconcernedly taking in the empty chairs and tables. A few

minutes later there swaggered up to the café two of the most

disreputable, low-browed scoundrels I had ever seen, each wearing a

dark-blue cap, with a glazed peak over the eyes; caps exactly similar

to the one which lay in front of Simard. The band of Apaches which now

permeates all Paris has risen since my time, and Simard had been

mistaken an hour before in asserting that Valmont was familiar with

their haunts. The present Chief of Police in Paris and some of his

predecessors confess there is a difficulty in dealing with these

picked assassins, but I should very much like to take a hand in the

game on the side of law and order. However, that is not to be;

therefore, the Apaches increase and prosper.

The two vagabonds roughly smote Simard's cap on his prone head, and as

roughly raised him to his feet.

'He is a friend of mine,' I interposed, 'and promised to take me home

with him.'

'Good! Follow us,' said one of them; and now I passed through the

morning streets of Paris behind three cut-throats, yet knew that I was

safer than if broad daylight was in the thoroughfare, with a meridian

sun shining down upon us. I was doubly safe, being in no fear of harm

from midnight prowlers, and equally free from danger of arrest by the

police. Every officer we met avoided us, and casually stepped to the

other side of the street. We turned down a narrow lane, then through a

still narrower one, which terminated at a courtyard. Entering a tall

building, we climbed up five flights of stairs to a landing, where one

of the scouts kicked open a door, into a room so miserable that there

was not even a lock to protect its poverty. Here they allowed the

insensible Simard to drop with a crash on the floor, thus they left us

alone without even an adieu. The Apaches take care of their own--after

a fashion.

I struck a match, and found part of a bougie stuck in the mouth of an

absinthe bottle, resting on a rough deal table. Lighting the bougie, I

surveyed the horrible apartment. A heap of rags lay in a corner, and

this was evidently Simard's bed. I hauled him to it, and there he lay

unconscious, himself a bundle of rags. I found one chair, or, rather,

stool, for it had no back. I drew the table against the lockless door,

blew out the light, sat on the stool, resting my arms on the table,

and my head on my arms, and slept peacefully till long after daybreak.

Simard awoke in the worst possible humour. He poured forth a great

variety of abusive epithets at me. To make himself still more

agreeable, he turned back the rags on which he had slept, and brought

to the light a round, black object, like a small cannon-ball, which he

informed me was the picric bomb that was to scatter destruction among

my English friends, for whom he expressed the greatest possible

loathing and contempt. Then sitting up, he began playing with this

infernal machine, knowing, as well as I, that if he allowed it to drop

that was the end of us two.

I shrugged my shoulders at this display, and affected a nonchalance I

was far from feeling, but finally put an end to his dangerous

amusement by telling him that if he came out with me I would pay for

his breakfast, and give him a drink of absinthe.

The next few days were the most anxious of my life. Never before had I

lived on terms of intimacy with a picric bomb, that most deadly and

uncertain of all explosive agencies. I speedily found that Simard was

so absinthe-soaked I could do nothing with him. He could not be bribed

or cajoled or persuaded or threatened. Once, indeed, when he talked

with drunken affection of Eugène Valmont, I conceived a wild notion of

declaring myself to him; but a moment's reflection showed the absolute

uselessness of this course. It was not one Simard with whom I had to

deal, but half a dozen or more. There was Simard, sober, half sober,

quarter sober, drunk, half drunk, quarter drunk, or wholly drunk. Any

bargain I might make with the one Simard would not be kept by any of

the other six. The only safe Simard was Simard insensible through

over-indulgence. I had resolved to get Simard insensibly drunk on the

morning of the procession, but my plans were upset at a meeting of the

anarchists, which luckily took place on an evening shortly after my

arrival, and this gave me time to mature the plan which was actually

carried out. Each member of the anarchists' club knew of Simard's

slavery to absinthe, and fears were expressed that he might prove

incapable on the day of the procession, too late for a substitute to

take his place. It was, therefore, proposed that one or two others

should be stationed along the route of the procession with bombs ready

if Simard failed. This I strenuously opposed, and guaranteed that

Simard would be ready to launch his missile. I met with little

difficulty in persuading the company to agree, because, after all,

every man among them feared he might be one of those selected, which

choice was practically a sentence of death. I guaranteed that the bomb

would be thrown, and this apparently was taken to mean that if Simard

did not do the deed, I would.

This danger over, I next took the measurements, and estimated the

weight, of the picric bomb. I then sought out a most amiable and

expert pyrotechnist, a capable workman of genius, who with his own

hand makes those dramatic firework arrangements which you sometimes

see in Paris. As Eugène Valmont, I had rendered a great service to

this man, and he was not likely to have forgotten it. During one of

the anarchist scares a stupid policeman had arrested him, and when I

intervened the man was just on the verge of being committed for life.

France trembled in one of her panics, or, rather, Paris did, and

demanded victims. This blameless little workman had indeed contributed

with both material and advice, but any fool might have seen that he

had done this innocently. His assistance had been invoked and secured

under the pretence that his clients were promoting an amateur firework

display, which was true enough, but the display cost the lives of

three men, and intentionally so. I cheered up the citizen in the

moment of his utmost despair, and brought such proof of his innocence

to the knowledge of those above me that he was most reluctantly

acquitted. To this man I now went with my measurement of the bomb and

the estimate of its weight.

'Sir,' said I, 'do you remember Eugène Valmont?'

'Am I ever likely to forget him?' he replied, with a fervour that

pleased me.

'He has sent me to you, and implores you to aid me, and that aid will

wipe out the debt you owe him.'

'Willingly, willingly,' cried the artisan, 'so long as it has nothing

to do with the anarchists or the making of bombs.'

'It has to do exactly with those two things. I wish you to make an

innocent bomb which will prevent an anarchist outrage.'

At this the little man drew back, and his face became pale.

'It is impossible,' he protested; 'I have had enough of innocent

bombs. No, no, and in any case how can I be sure you come from Eugène

Valmont? No, monsieur, I am not to be trapped the second time.'

At this I related rapidly all that Valmont had done for him, and even

repeated Valmont's most intimate conversation with him. The man was

nonplussed, but remained firm.

'I dare not do it,' he said.

We were alone in his back shop. I walked to the door and thrust in the

bolt; then, after a moment's pause, turned round, stretched forth my

right hand dramatically, and cried,--'Behold, Eugène Valmont!'

My friend staggered against the wall in his amazement, and I continued

in solemn tones,--'Eugène Valmont, who by this removal of his disguise

places his life in your hands as your life was in his. Now, monsieur,

what will you do?'

He replied,--'Monsieur Valmont, I shall do whatever you ask. If I

refused a moment ago, it was because I thought there was now in France

no Eugène Valmont to rectify my mistake if I made one.'

I resumed my disguise, and told him I wished an innocent substitute

for this picric bomb, and he at once suggested an earthenware globe,

which would weigh the same as the bomb, and which could be coloured to

resemble it exactly.

'And now, Monsieur Valmont, do you wish smoke to issue from this

imitation bomb?'

'Yes,' I said, 'in such quantity as you can compress within it.'

'It is easily done,' he cried, with the enthusiasm of a true French

artist. 'And may I place within some little design of my own which

will astonish your friends the English, and delight my friends the

French?'

'Monsieur,' said I, 'I am in your hands. I trust the project entirely

to your skill,' and thus it came about that four days later I

substituted the bogus globe for the real one, and, unseen, dropped the

picric bomb from one of the bridges into the Seine.

On the morning of the procession I was compelled to allow Simard

several drinks of absinthe to bring him up to a point where he could

be depended on, otherwise his anxiety and determination to fling the

bomb, his frenzy against all government, made it certain that he would

betray both of us before the fateful moment came. My only fear was

that I could not stop him drinking when once he began, but somehow our

days of close companionship, loathsome as they were to me, seemed to

have had the effect of building up again the influence I held over him

in former days, and his yielding more or less to my wishes appeared to

be quite unconscious on his part.

The procession was composed entirely of carriages, each containing

four persons--two Englishmen sat on the back seats, with two Frenchmen

in front of them. A thick crowd lined each side of the thoroughfare,

cheering vociferously. Right into the middle of the procession Simard

launched his bomb. There was no crash of explosion. The missile simply

went to pieces as if it were an earthenware jar, and there arose a

dense column of very white smoke. In the immediate vicinity the

cheering stopped at once, and the sinister word 'bomb' passed from lip

to lip in awed whispers. As the throwing had been unnoticed in the

midst of the commotion, I held Simard firmly by the wrist, determined

he should not draw attention to himself by his panic-stricken desire

for immediate flight.

'Stand still, you fool!' I hissed into his ear and he obeyed

trembling.

The pair of horses in front of which the bomb fell rose for a moment

on their hind legs, and showed signs of bolting, but the coachman held

them firmly, and uplifted his hand so that the procession behind him

came to a momentary pause. No one in the carriages moved a muscle,

then suddenly the tension was broken by a great and simultaneous

cheer. Wondering at this I turned my eyes from the frightened horses

to the column of pale smoke in front of us, and saw that in some

manner it had resolved itself into a gigantic calla lily, pure white,

while from the base of this sprung the lilies of France, delicately

tinted. Of course, this could not have happened if there had been the

least wind, but the air was so still that the vibration of the

cheering caused the huge lily to tremble gently as it stood there

marvellously poised; the lily of peace, surrounded by the lilies of

France! That was the design, and if you ask me how it was done, I can

only refer you to my pyrotechnist, and say that whatever a Frenchman

attempts to do he will accomplish artistically.

And now these imperturbable English, who had been seated immobile when

they thought a bomb was thrown, stood up in their carriages to get a

better view of this aerial phenomenon, cheering and waving their hats.

The lily gradually thinned and dissolved in little patches of cloud

that floated away above our heads.

'I cannot stay here longer,' groaned Simard, quaking, his nerves, like

himself, in rags. 'I see the ghosts of those I have killed floating

around me.'

'Come on, then, but do not hurry.'

There was no difficulty in getting him to London, but it was absinthe,

absinthe, all the way, and when we reached Charing Cross, I was

compelled to help him, partly insensible, into a cab. I took him

direct to Imperial Flats, and up into my own set of chambers, where I

opened my strong room, and flung him inside to sleep off his

intoxication, and subsist on bread and water when he became sober.

I attended that night a meeting of the anarchists, and detailed

accurately the story of our escape from France. I knew we had been

watched, and so skipped no detail. I reported that I had taken Simard

directly to my compatriot's flat; to Eugène Valmont, the man who had

given me employment, and who had promised to do what he could for

Simard, beginning by trying to break him of the absinthe habit, as he

was now a physical wreck through over-indulgence in that stimulant.

It was curious to note the discussion which took place a few nights

afterwards regarding the failure of the picric bomb. Scientists among

us said that the bomb had been made too long; that a chemical reaction

had taken place which destroyed its power. A few superstitious ones

saw a miracle in what had happened, and they forthwith left our

organisation. Then again, things were made easier by the fact that the

man who constructed the bomb, evidently terror-stricken at what he had

done, disappeared the day before the procession, and has never since

been heard of. The majority of the anarchists believed he had made a

bogus bomb, and had fled to escape their vengeance rather than to

evade the justice of the law.

Simard will need no purgatory in the next world. I kept him on bread

and water for a month in my strong room, and at first he demanded

absinthe with threats, then grovelled, begging and praying for it.

After that a period of depression and despair ensued, but finally his

naturally strong constitution conquered, and began to build itself up

again. I took him from his prison one midnight, and gave him a bed in

my Soho room, taking care in bringing him away that he would never

recognise the place where he had been incarcerated. In my dealings

with him I had always been that old man, Paul Ducharme. Next morning I

said to him:--'You spoke of Eugène Valmont. I have learned that he

lives in London, and I advise you to call upon him. Perhaps he can get

you something to do.'

Simard was overjoyed, and two hours later, as Eugène Valmont, I

received him in my flat, and made him my assistant on the spot. From

that time forward, Paul Ducharme, language teacher, disappeared from

the earth, and Simard abandoned his two A's--anarchy and absinthe.