First Edition

38655

The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.

_Chapter I_

He was a handsome man, with large liquid-black eyes, an olive

complexion that was laid upon a skin clear, clean, and of surpassing

smoothness of texture, and with a mop of curly black hair that invited

fondling--in short, the kind of a man that women like to look upon,

and also, the kind of a man who is quite thoroughly aware of this

insinuative quality of his looks. He was lean-waisted, muscular, and

broad-shouldered, and about him was a certain bold, masculine swagger

that was belied by the apprehensiveness in the glance he cast around

the room and at the retreating servant who had shown him in. The fellow

was a deaf mute--this he would have guessed, had he not been already

aware of the fact, thanks to Lanigan’s description of an earlier visit

to this same apartment.

Once the door had closed on the servant’s back, the visitor could

scarcely refrain from shivering. Yet there was nothing in the place

itself to excite such a feeling. It was a quiet, dignified room, lined

with crowded bookshelves, with here and there an etching, and, in one

place, a map-rack. Also against the wall was a big rack filled with

railway timetables and steamship folders. Between the windows was a

large, flattop desk, on which stood a telephone, and from which, on an

extension, swung a typewriter. Everything was in scrupulous order and

advertised a presiding genius that was the soul of system.

The books attracted the waiting man, and he ranged along the shelves,

with a practiced eye skimming titles by whole rows at a time. Nor was

there anything shivery in these solid-backed books. He noted especially

Ibsen’s Prose Dramas and Shaw’s various plays and novels; editions de

luxe of Wilde, Smollett, Fielding, Sterne, and the _Arabian Nights_;

La Fargue’s _Evolution of Property_, _The Students’ Marx_, _Fabian

Essays_, Brooks’ _Economic Supremacy_, Dawson’s _Bismarck and State

Socialism_, Engels’ _Origin of the Family_, Conant’s _The United States

in the Orient_, and John Mitchell’s _Organized Labor_. Apart, and in

the original Russian, were the works of Tolstoy, Gorky, Turgenev,

Andreyev, Goncharov, and Dostoyevski.

The man strayed on to a library table, heaped with orderly piles of

the current reviews and quarterlies, where, at one corner, were a

dozen of the late novels. He pulled up an easy chair, stretched out

his legs, lighted a cigarette, and glanced over these books. One, a

slender, red-bound volume, caught his eyes. On the front cover a gaudy

female rioted. He selected it, and read the title: _Four Weeks: A Loud

Book_. As he opened it, a slight but sharp explosion occurred within

its papers, accompanied by a flash of light and a puff of smoke. On

the instant he was convulsed with terror. He fell back in the chair

and sank down, arms and legs in the air, the book flying from his

hands in about the same fashion a man would dispense with a snake he

had unwittingly picked up. The visitor was badly shaken. His beautiful

olive skin had turned a ghastly green, while his liquid-black eyes

bulged with horror.

Then it was that the door to an inner apartment opened, and the

presiding genius entered. A cold mirth was frosted on his countenance

as he surveyed the abject fright of the other. Stooping, he picked up

the book, spread it open, and exposed the toy-work mechanism that had

exploded the paper cap.

“No wonder creatures like you are compelled to come to me,” he sneered.

“You terrorists are always a puzzle to me. Why is it that you are most

fascinated by the very thing of which you are most afraid?” He was

now gravely scornful. “Powder--that’s it. If you had exploded that

toy-pistol cap on your naked tongue it would have caused no more than a

temporary inconvenience to your facilities of speaking and eating. Whom

do you want to kill now?”

The speaker was a striking contrast to his visitor. So blond was he

that it might well be described as washed-out blond. His eyes, veiled

by the finest and most silken of lashes that were almost like an

albino’s, were the palest of pale blue. His head, partly bald, was

thinly covered by a similar growth of fine and silky hair, almost

snow-white so fairly white it was, yet untinctured by time. The mouth

was firm and considerative, though not harsh, and the dome of forehead,

broad and lofty, spoke eloquently of the brain behind. His English was

painfully correct, the total and colorless absence of any accent almost

constituting an accent in itself. Despite the crude practical joke

he had just perpetrated, there was little humor in him. A grave and

somber dignity, that hinted of scholarship, characterized him; while he

emanated an atmosphere of complacency of power and seemed to suggest an

altitude of philosophic calm far beyond fake books and toy-pistol caps.

So elusive was his personality, his colorless coloring, and his almost

lineless face, that there was no clew to his age, which might have been

anywhere between thirty and fifty--or sixty. One felt that he was older

than he looked.

“You are Ivan Dragomiloff?” the visitor asked.

“That is the name I am known by. It serves as well as any other--as

well as Will Hausmann serves you. That is the name you were admitted

under. I know you. You are secretary of the Caroline Warfield group. I

have had dealings with it before. Lanigan represented you, I believe.”

He paused, placed a black skullcap on his thin-thatched head, and sat

down.

“No complaints, I hope,” he added coldly.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Hausmann hastened to assure him. “That other

affair was entirely satisfactory. The only reason we had not been to

you again was that we could not afford it. But now we want McDuffy,

chief of police--”

“Yes, I know him,” the other interrupted.

“He has been a brute, a beast,” Hausmann hurried on with raising

indignation. “He has martyred our cause again and again, deflowered

our group of its choicest spirits. Despite the warnings we gave him,

he deported Tawney, Cicerole, and Gluck. He has broken up our meetings

repeatedly. His officers have clubbed and beaten us like cattle. It

is due to him that four of our martyred brothers and sisters are now

languishing in prison cells.”

While he went on with the recital of grievances, Dragomiloff nodded his

head gravely, as if keeping a running account.

“There is old Sanger, as pure and lofty a soul as ever breathed the

polluted air of civilization, seventy-two years old, a patriarch,

broken in health, dying inch by inch and serving out his ten years in

Sing Sing in this land of the free. And for what?” he cried excitedly.

Then his voice sank to hopeless emptiness as he feebly answered his own

question. “For nothing.”

“These hounds of the law must be taught the red lesson again. They

cannot continue always to ill-treat us with impunity. McDuffy’s

officers gave perjured testimony on the witness stand. This we know.

He has lived too long. The time has come. And he should have been dead

long ere this, only we could not raise the money. But when we decided

that assassination was cheaper than lawyer fees, we left our poor

comrades to go unattended to their prison cells and accumulated the

fund more quickly.”

“You know it is our rule never to fill an order until we are satisfied

that it is socially justifiable,” Dragomiloff observed quietly.

“Surely.” Hausmann attempted indignantly to interrupt.

“But in this case,” Dragomiloff went on calmly and judicially, “there

is little doubt but what your cause is just. The death of McDuffy would

appear socially expedient and right. I know him and his deeds. I can

assure you that on investigation I believe we are practically certain

so to conclude. And now, the money.”

“But if you do not find the death of McDuffy socially right?”

“The money will be returned to you, less ten percent to cover the cost

of investigation. It is our custom.”

Hausmann pulled a fat wallet from his pocket, and then hesitated.

“Is full payment necessary?”

“Surely you know our terms.” There was mild reproof in Dragomiloff’s

voice.

“But I thought, I hoped--you know yourself we anarchists are poor

people.”

“And that is why I make you so cheap a rate. Ten thousand dollars is

not too much for the killing of the chief of police of a great city.

Believe me, it barely pays expenses. Private persons are charged much

more, and merely for private persons at that. Were you a millionaire,

instead of a poor struggling group, I should charge you fifty thousand

at the very least for McDuffy. Besides, I am not entirely in this for

my health.”

“Heavens! What would you charge for a king!” the other cried.

“That depends. A king, say of England, would cost half a million.

Little second- and third-rate kings come anywhere between seventy-five

and a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I had no idea they came so high,” Hausmann muttered.

“That is why so few are killed. Then, too, you forget the heavy

expenses of so perfect an organization as I have built up. Our mere

traveling expenses are far larger than you imagine. My agents are

numerous, and you don’t think for a moment that they take their lives

in their hands and kill for a song. And remember, these things we

accomplish without any peril whatsoever to our clients. If you feel

that Chief McDuffy’s life is dear at ten thousand, let me ask if you

rate your own at any less. Besides, you anarchists are poor operators.

Whenever you try your hand you bungle it or get caught. Furthermore,

you always insist on dynamite or infernal machines, which are extremely

hazardous--”

“It is necessary that our executions be sensational and spectacular,”

Hausmann explained.

The Chief of the Assassination Bureau nodded his head.

“Yes, I understand. But that is not the point. It is such a stupid,

gross way of killing that it is, as I said, extremely hazardous for our

agents. Now, if your group will permit me to use, say, poison, I’ll

throw off ten percent; if an air-rifle, twenty-five percent.”

“Impossible!” cried the anarchist. “It will not serve our end. Our

killings must be red.”

“In which case I can grant you no reduction. You are an American, are

you not, Mr. Hausmann?”

“Yes; and American born--over in St. Joseph, Michigan.”

“Why don’t you kill McDuffy yourself and save your group the money?”

The anarchist blanched.

“No, no. Your service is too, too excellent, Mr. Dragomiloff. Also, I

have a--er--a temperamental diffidence about the taking of life or the

shedding of blood--that is, you know, personally. It is repulsive to

me. Theoretically I may know a killing to be just, but, actually, I

cannot bring myself to do it. I--I simply can’t, that is all. I can’t

help it. I could not with my own hand harm a fly.”

“Yet you belong to a violent group.”

“I know it. My reason compels me to belong. I could not be satisfied to

belong with the philosophic, non-resistant Tolstoians. I do not believe

in turning the other cheek, as do those in the Martha Brown group, for

instance. If I am struck, I must strike back--”

“Even if by proxy,” Dragomiloff interrupted dryly.

Hausmann bowed.

“By proxy. If the flesh is weak, there is no other way. Here is the

money.”

As Dragomiloff counted it, Hausmann made a final effort for a bargain.

“Ten thousand dollars. You will find it correct. Take it, and remember

that it represents devotion and sacrifice on the parts of many scores

of comrades who could ill afford the heavy contributions we demand.

Couldn’t you--er--couldn’t you throw in Inspector Morgan for full

measure? He is another foul-hearted beast.”

Dragomiloff shook his head.

“No; it can’t be done. Your group already enjoys the biggest cut-rate

we have ever accorded.”

“A bomb, you know,” the other urged. “You might get both of them with

the same bomb.”

“Which we shall be very careful not to do. Of course, we shall have

to investigate Chief McDuffy. We demand a moral sanction for all our

transactions. If we find that his death is not socially justifiable--”

“What becomes of the ten thousand?” Hausmann broke in anxiously.

“It is returned to you less ten percent for running expenses.”

“And if you fail to kill him?”

“If, at the end of a year, we have failed, the money is returned to

you, plus five percent interest on the same.”

Dragomiloff, indicating that the interview was at an end, pressed a

call-button and stood up. His example was followed by Hausmann, who

took advantage of the delay in the servant’s coming to ask him another

question.

“But suppose you should die?--an accident, sickness, anything. I have

no receipt for the money. It would be lost.”

“All that is arranged. The head of my Chicago branch would immediately

take charge, and would conduct everything until such time as the head

of the San Francisco branch could arrive. An instance of that occurred

only last year. You remember Burgess?”

“Which Burgess?”

“The railroad king. One of our men covered that, made the whole

transaction and received the payment in advance, as usual. Of course,

my sanction was obtained. And then two things happened. Burgess

was killed in a railroad accident, and our man died of pneumonia.

Nevertheless, the money was returned. I saw to it personally, though

it was not recoverable by law. Our long success shows our honorable

dealing with our clients. Believe me, operating as we do outside the

law, anything less than the strictest honesty would be fatal to us. Now

concerning McDuffy--”

At this moment the servant entered, and Hausmann made a warning gesture

for silence. Dragomiloff smiled.

“Can’t hear a word,” he said.

“But you rang for him just now. And, by Jove, he answered my ring at

the door.”

“A ring for him is a flash. Instead of a bell, an electric light is

turned on. He has never heard a sound in his life. As long as he does

not see your lips, he cannot understand what you say. And now, about

McDuffy. Have you thought well about removing him? Remember, with us,

an order once given is as good as accomplished. We cannot carry on our

business otherwise. We have our rules, you know. Once the order goes

forth it can never be withdrawn. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite.” Hausmann paused at the door. “When may we hear news of--of

activity?”

Dragomiloff considered a moment.

“Within a week. The investigation, in this case, is only formal. The

operation itself is very simple. I have my men on the spot. Good day.”

_Chapter II_

One afternoon, a week later, an electric cab waited in front of the

great Russian importing house of S. Constantine & Co. It was three

o’clock when Sergius Constantine himself emerged from the private

office and was accompanied to the cab by the manager, to whom he was

still giving instructions. Had Hausmann or Lanigan watched him enter

the cab they would have recognized him immediately, but not by the name

of Sergius Constantine. Had they been asked, and had they answered,

they would have named him Ivan Dragomiloff.

For Ivan Dragomiloff it was who drove the cab south and crossed over

into the teeming East Side. He stopped, once, to buy a paper from a

gamin who was screaming “Extra!” Nor did he start again until he had

read the headlines and brief text announcing another anarchist outrage

in a neighboring city and the death of Chief McDuffy. As he laid the

paper beside him and started on, there was an expression of calm pride

on Constantine’s face. The organization which he had built up worked,

and worked with its customary smoothness. The investigation--in this

case almost perfunctory--had been made, the order sent forth, and

McDuffy was dead. He smiled slightly as he drew up before a modern

apartment house which was placed on the edge of one of the most noisome

East Side slums. The smile was at thought of the rejoicing there would

be in the Caroline Warfield group--the terrorists who had not the

courage to slay.

An elevator took Constantine to the top floor, and a pushbutton caused

the door to be opened for him by a young woman who threw her arms

around his neck, kissed him, and showered him with Russian diminutives

of affection, and whom, in turn, he called Grunya.

They were very comfortable rooms into which he was taken--and

remarkably comfortable and tasteful, even for a model apartment house

in the East Side. Chastely simple, culture and wealth spoke in the

furnishing and decoration. There were many shelves of books, a table

littered with magazines, while a parlor grand filled the far end of the

room. Grunya was a robust Russian blonde, but with all the color that

her caller’s blondness lacked.

“You should have telephoned,” she chided, in English that was as

without accent as his own. “I might have been out. You are so irregular

I never know when to expect you.”

Dropping the afternoon paper beside him, he lolled back among the

cushions of the capacious window-seat.

“Now Grunya, dear, you mustn’t begin by scolding,” he said, looking

at her with beaming fondness. “I’m not one of your submerged-tenth

kindergarteners, nor am I going to let you order my actions, yea, even

to the extent of being told when to wash my face or blow my nose. I

came down on the chance of finding you in, but principally for the

purpose of trying out my new cab. Will you come for a little run

around?”

She shook her head.

“Not this afternoon. I expect a visitor at four.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” He looked at his watch. “Also, I came to

learn if you would come home the end of the week. Edge Moor is lonely

without either of us.”

“I was out three days ago,” she pouted. “Grosset said you hadn’t been

there for a month.”

“Too busy. But I’m going to loaf for a week now and read up. By the

way, why was it necessary for Grosset to tell you I hadn’t been there

in a month, unless for the fact that you hadn’t been there?”

“Busy, you inquisitor, busy, just like you.” She bubbled with laughter,

and, reaching over, caressed his hand.

“Will you come?”

“It’s only Monday, now,” she considered. “Yes; if--” She paused

roguishly. “If I can bring a friend for the week end. You’ll like him,

I know.”

“Oh, ho; it’s a _him_, is it? One of your long-haired socialists, I

suppose.”

“No; a short-haired one. But you ought to know better, Uncle, dear,

than to be repeating those comic-supplement jokes. I never saw a

long-haired socialist in my life. Did you?”

“No; but I’ve seen them drink beer,” he announced with conviction.

“Now you shall be punished.” She picked up a cushion and advanced upon

him menacingly. “As my kindergarteners say, ‘I’m going to knock your

block off.’--There! And there! And there!”

“Grunya! I protest!” he grunted and panted between blows. “It is

unbecoming. It is disrespectful, to treat your mother’s brother in such

fashion. I’m getting old--”

“Pouf!” the lively Grunya shut him off, discarding the cushion. She

picked up his hand and looked at the fingers. “To think I’ve seen those

fingers tear a pack of cards in two and bend silver coins.”

“They are past all that now. They ... are quite feeble.”

He let the members in question rest limply and flaccidly in her hand,

and aroused her indignation again. She placed her hand on his biceps.

“Tense it,” she commanded.

“I--I can’t,” he faltered. “--Oh! Ouch! There, that’s the best I can

do.” A very weak effort indeed he made of it. “I’ve gone soft, you

see--the breakdown of tissue due to advancing senility--”

“Tense it!” she cried, this time with a stamp of her foot.

Constantine surrendered and obeyed, and as the biceps swelled under her

hand, a glow of admiration appeared in her face.

“Like iron,” she murmured, “only it is living iron. It is wonderful.

You are cruelly strong. I should die if you ever put the weight of your

strength on me.”

“You will remember,” he answered, “and place it to my credit, that

when you were a little thing, even when you were very naughty, I never

spanked you.”

“Ah, Uncle, but was not that because you had moral convictions against

spanking?”

“True; but if ever those convictions were shaken, it was by you, and

often enough when you were anywhere between three and six. Grunya,

dear, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but truth compels me to say

that at that period you were a barbarian, a savage, a cave-child, a

jungle beast, a--a regular little devil, a she-wolf of a cub without

morality or manners, a--”

But a cushion, raised and threatening, caused him to desist and to

throw up his arms in arches of protection to his head.

“’Ware!” he cried. “By your present actions the only difference I can

note is that you are a full-grown cub. Twenty-two, eh? And feeling your

strength--beginning to take it out on me. But it is not too late. The

next time you attempt to trounce me, I _will_ give you a spanking,

even if you are a young lady, a fat young lady.”

“Oh, you brute! I’m not!” She thrust out her arm. “Look at that. Feel

it. That’s muscle. I weigh one hundred and twenty-eight. Will you take

it back?”

Again the cushion rose and fell upon him, and it was in the midst

of struggling to defend himself, laughing and grunting, dodging and

guarding with his arms, that a maid entered with a samovar and Grunya

desisted in order to serve tea.

“One of your kindergarteners?” he queried, as the maid left the room.

Grunya nodded.

“She looks quite respectable,” he commented. “Her face is actually

clean.”

“I refuse to let you make me excited over my settlement work,” she

answered, with a smile and caress, as she passed him his tea. “I have

been working out my individual evolution, that is all. You don’t

believe now what you did at twenty.”

Constantine shook his head.

“Perhaps I am only a dreamer,” he added wistfully.

“You have read and studied, and yet you have done nothing for social

betterment. You have never raised your hand.”

“I have never raised my hand,” he echoed sadly, and, at the same

moment, his glance falling on the headlines of the newspaper announcing

McDuffy’s death, he found himself forced to suppress the grin that

writhed at his lips.

“It’s the Russian character,” Grunya cried. “--Study, microscopic

inspection and introspection, everything but deeds and action. But I--”

Her young voice lifted triumphantly. “I am of the new generation, the

first American generation--”

“You were Russian born,” he interpolated dryly.

“But American bred. I was only a babe. I have known no other land but

this land of action. And yet, Uncle Sergius, you could have been such a

power, if you’d only let business alone.”

“Look at all that you do down here,” he answered. “Don’t forget, it

is my business that enables you to perform your works. You see, I do

good by....” He hesitated, and remembered Hausmann, the gentle-spirited

terrorist. “I do good by proxy. That’s it. You are my proxy.”

“I know it, and it’s horrid of me to say such things,” she cried

generously. “You’ve spoiled me. I never knew my father, so it is no

treason for me to say I’m glad it was you that took my father’s place.

My father--no father--could have been so--so colossally kind.”

And, instead of cushions, it was kisses this time she lavished on the

colorless, thin-thatched blond gentleman with iron muscles who lolled

on the window-seat.

“What is becoming of your anarchism?” he queried slyly, chiefly for the

purpose of covering up the modest confusion and happiness her words had

caused. “It looked for a while, several years ago, as if you were going

to become a full-fledged Red, breathing death and destruction to all

upholders of the social order.”

“I--I did have leanings that way,” she confessed reluctantly.

“Leanings!” he shouted. “You worried the life out of me trying to

persuade me to give up my business and devote myself to the cause

of humanity. And you spelled ‘cause’ all in capitals, if you will

remember. Then you came down to this slum work--making terms with

the enemy, in fact--patching up the poor wrecks of the system you

despised--”

She raised a hand in protest.

“What else would you call it?” he demanded. “Your boys’ clubs, your

girls’ clubs, your little mothers’ clubs. Why, that day nursery you

established for women workers! It only meant, by taking care of the

children during work hours, that you more thoroughly enabled the

employers to sweat the mothers.”

“But I’ve outgrown the day-nursery scheme, Uncle; you know that.”

Constantine nodded his head.

“And a few other things. You’re getting real conservative--er, sort of

socialistic. Not of such stuff are revolutionists made.”

“I’m not so revolutionary, Uncle, dear. I’m growing up. Social

development is slow and painful. There are no short cuts. Every step

must be worked out. Oh, I’m still a philosophic anarchist. Every

intelligent socialist is. But it seems more clear to me every day that

the ideal freedom of a state of anarchy can only be obtained by going

through the intervening stage of socialism.”

“What is his name?” Constantine asked abruptly.

“Who?--What?” A warm flush of maiden blood rose in her cheeks.

Constantine quietly sipped his tea and waited.

Grunya recovered herself and looked at him earnestly for a moment.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “on Saturday night, at Edge Moor. He--he is

the short-haired one.”

“The guest you are to bring?”

She nodded.

“I’ll tell you no more till then.”

“Do you...?” he asked.

“I ... I think so,” she faltered.

“Has he spoken?”

“Yes ... and no. He has such a way of taking things for granted. You

wait until you meet him. You’ll love him, Uncle Sergius, I know you

will. And you’ll respect his mind, too. He’s ... he’s my visitor at

four. Wait and meet him now. There’s a dear, do, please.”

But Uncle Sergius Constantine, alias Ivan Dragomiloff, looked at his

watch and quickly stood up.

“No; bring him to Edge Moor Saturday, Grunya, and I’ll do my best to

like him. And I’ll have more opportunity then than now. I’m going to

loaf for a week. If it is as serious as it seems, have him stop the

week.”

“He’s so busy,” was her answer. “It was all I could do to persuade him

for the week end.”

“Business?”

“In a way. But not real business. He’s not in business. He’s rich, you

know. Social-betterment business would best describe what keeps him

busy. But you’ll admire his mind, Uncle, and respect it, too.”

“I hope so ... for your sake, dear,” were Constantine’s last words, as

they parted in an embrace at the door.

_Chapter III_

It was a very demure young woman who received Winter Hall a few minutes

after her uncle’s departure. Grunya was intensely serious as she served

him tea and chatted with him--if chat it can be called, when the

subject matter ranged from Gorky’s last book and the latest news of the

Russian Revolution to Hull House and the shirtwaist-makers’ strike.

Winter Hall shook his head forbiddingly at her reconstructed

ameliorative plans.

“Take Hull House,” he said. “It was a point of illumination in the slum

wilderness of Chicago. It is still a point of illumination and no more.

The slum wilderness has grown, vastly grown. There is a far greater

totality of vice and misery and degradation in Chicago today than was

there when Hull House was founded. Then Hull House has failed, as have

all the other ameliorative devices. You can’t save a leaky boat with a

bailer that throws out less water than rushes in.”

“I know, I know,” Grunya murmured sadly.

“Take the matter of inside rooms,” Hall went on. “In New York City, at

the close of the Civil War, there were sixty thousand inside rooms.

Since then inside rooms have been continually crusaded against.

Men, many of them, have devoted their lives to that very fight.

Public-spirited citizens by thousands and tens of thousands have

contributed their money and their approval. Whole blocks have been

torn down and replaced by parks and playgrounds. It has been a great

and terrible fight. And what is the result? Today, in the year 1911,

there are over three hundred thousand inside rooms in New York City.”

He shrugged his shoulders and sipped his tea.

“More and more do you make me see two things,” Grunya confessed.

“First, that liberty, unrestricted by man-made law, cannot be gained

except by evolution through a stage of excessive man-made law that

will well-nigh reduce us all to automatons--the socialistic stage,

of course. But I, for one, would never care to live in the socialist

state. It would be maddening.”

“You prefer the splendid, wild, cruel beauty of our present commercial

individualism?” he asked quietly.

“Almost I do. Almost I do. But the socialist state must come. I know

that, because of the second thing I so clearly see, and that is the

failure of amelioration to ameliorate.” She broke off abruptly, favored

him with a dazzling, cheerful smile, and announced, “But why should we

be serious with the hot weather coming on? Why don’t you leave town for

a breath of air?”

“Why don’t you?” he countered.

“Too busy.”

“Same here.” He paused, and his face seemed suddenly to become harsh

and grim, as if reflecting some stern inner thought. “In fact, I have

never been busier in my life, and never so near accomplishing something

big.”

“But you will run up for the week end and meet my uncle?” she demanded

impulsively. “He was here just a few minutes ago. He wants to make it

a--a sort of house party, just the three of us, and suggests the week.”

He shook his head reluctantly.

“I’d like to, and I’ll run up, but I can’t stay a whole week. This

affair of mine is most important. I have learned only today what I have

been months in seeking.”

And while he talked, she studied his face as only a woman in love can

study a man’s face. She knew every minutest detail of Winter Hall’s

face, from the inverted arch of the joined eyebrows to the pictured

corners of the lips, from the firm unclefted chin to the last least

crinkle of the ear. Being a man, even if he were in love, not so did

Hall know Grunya’s face. He loved her, but love did not open his eyes

to microscopic details. Had he been called upon suddenly to describe

her out of the registered impressions of his consciousness, he could

have done so only in general terms, such as vivacious, plastic,

delicate coloring, low forehead, hair always becoming, eyes that smiled

and glowed even as her cheeks did, a sympathetic and adorable mouth,

and a voice the viols of which were wonderful and indescribable. He had

also impressions of cleanness and wholesomeness, noble seriousness,

facile wit, and brilliant intellect.

What Grunya saw was a well-built man of thirty-two, with the brow of a

thinker and all the facial insignia of a doer. He, too, was blue-eyed

and blond, in the bronzed American way of those that live much in the

sun. He smiled much, and, when he laughed, laughed heartily. Yet often,

in repose, a certain sternness, almost brutal, was manifest in his

face. Grunya, who loved strength and who was appalled by brutality, was

sometimes troubled by fluttering divinations of this other side of his

character.

Winter Hall was a rather unusual product of the times. In spite of

the easy ways of wealth in which he had spent his childhood, and of

the comfortable fortune inherited from his father and added to by two

spinster aunts, he had early devoted himself to the cause of humanity.

At college he had specialized in economics and sociology, and had been

looked upon as somewhat of a crank by his less serious fellow students.

Out of college, he had backed Riis, both with money and personal

effort, in the New York crusade. Much time and labor spent in a social

settlement had left him dissatisfied. He was always in search of the

thing behind the thing, of the cause that was really the cause. Thus,

he had studied politics, and, later, pursued graft from New York City

to Albany and back again, and studied it, too, in the capital of his

country.

After several years, apparently futile, he spent a few months in a

university settlement that was in reality a hotbed of radicalism, and

resolved to begin his studies from the very bottom. A year he spent as

a casual laborer wandering over the country, and for another year he

wandered as a vagabond, the companion of tramps and yegg men. For two

years, in Chicago, he was a professional charity worker, toiling long

hours and drawing down a salary of fifty dollars a month. And out of it

all, he had developed into a socialist--a “millionaire socialist,” as

he was labeled by the press.

He traveled much, and investigated always, studying affairs at first

hand. There was never a strike of importance that did not see him among

the first on the ground. He attended all the national and international

conventions of organized labor, and spent a year in Russia during the

impending crisis of the 1905 Revolution. Many articles of his had

appeared in the heavier magazines, and he was the author of several

books, all well written, deep, thoughtful, and, for a socialist,

conservative.

And this was the man with whom Grunya Constantine chatted and drank tea

in the window-seat of her East Side apartment.

“But it is not necessary for you to keep yourself mewed up all the time

in this wretched, stifling city,” she was saying. “In your case I

can’t imagine what imperatively compels you--”

But she did not finish the sentence, for at that moment she discovered

that Hall was no longer listening to her. His glance had chanced to

rest on the afternoon paper lying on the seat. Entirely oblivious of

her existence, he had picked up the paper and begun to read.

Grunya sulked prettily, but he took no notice of her.

“It’s very nice of you, I ... I must say,” she broke out, finally

attracting his attention. “Reading a newspaper while I am talking to

you.”

He turned the sheet so that she could see the headline of McDuffy’s

assassination. She looked up at him with incomprehension.

“I beg your pardon, Grunya, but when I saw that, I forgot everything.”

He tapped his forefinger on the headline. “That is why I am so busy.

That is why I remain in New York. That is why I can allow myself no

more than a week end with you, and you know how dearly I would love to

have the whole week.”

“But I do not understand,” she faltered. “Because the anarchists

have blown up a chief of police in another city ... I ... I don’t

understand.”

“I’ll tell you. For two years I had my suspicions, then they became

a certainty, and for months now I have steadily devoted myself to

running down what I believe to be the most terrible organization

for assassination that has ever flourished in the United States, or

anywhere else. In fact, I am almost certain that the organization is

international.

“Do you remember when John Mossman committed suicide by leaping from

the seventh story of the Fidelity Building? He was my friend, as well

as my father’s friend before me. There was no reason for him to kill

himself. The Fidelity Trust Corporation was flourishing. So were all

his other interests. His home life was unusually happy. His health was

prodigiously good. There was nothing on his mind. Yet the stupid police

called it suicide. There was some talk about its being tri-facial

neuralgia--incurable, unescapable, unendurable. When men get that they

do commit suicide. But he did not have it. We lunched together the

day of his death. I know he did not have it, and I made a point of

verifying the fact by interviewing his physician. It was theory only,

and it was poppycock. He never killed himself, never leaped from the

seventh story of the Fidelity Building. Then who killed him? And why?

Somebody threw him from the seventh story. Who? Why?

“It is likely that the affair would have been dismissed from my mind

as an insoluble mystery, had not Governor Northampton been killed by

an air-rifle just three days later. You remember?--on a city street,

from any one of a thousand windows. They never got a clue. I wondered

casually about these two murders, and from then on, grew keenly alive

to anything unusual in the daily list of homicides in the whole country.

“Oh, I shall not give you the whole list, but just a few. There was

Borff, the organized labor grafter of Sannington. He had controlled

that city for years. Graft prosecution after graft prosecution failed

to reach him. When they settled his estate they found him possessed

of half a dozen millions. They settled his estate just after he had

reached out and laid hands on the whole political machinery of the

state. It was just at the height of his power and his corruption when

he was struck down.

“And there were others--Chief of Police Little; Welchorst, the big

promoter; Blankhurst, the Cotton King; Inspector Satcherly, found

floating in the East River, and so on, and so on. The perpetrators were

never discovered. Then there were the society murders--Charley Atwater,

killed on that last hunting trip of his; Mrs. Langthorne-Haywards; Mrs.

Hastings-Reynolds; old Van Auston--oh, a long list indeed.

“All of which convinced me that a strong organization of some sort was

at work. That it was no mere Black Hand affair, I was certain. The

murders were not confined to any nationality nor to any stratum of

society. My first thought was of the anarchists. Forgive me, Grunya--”

His hand flashed out to hers and retained it warmly. “I had heard much

talk of you, and that you were in close touch with the violent groups.

I knew that you spent much money, and I was suspicious. And at any

rate, you could put me in closer touch with the anarchists. I came

suspecting you, and I remained to love you. I found you the gentlest

of anarchists and a very half-hearted one at that. You were already

started in your settlement work down here--”

“And you remained to dissatisfy me with that, too,” she laughed, at the

same time lifting the hand that held hers and resting her cheek against

it. “But go on. I’m all excited.”

“I did get in close with the anarchists, and the more I studied them

the more confident I became that they were incapable. They were so

unpractical. They dreamed dreams and spun theories and raged against

police persecution, and that was all. They never got anywhere. They

never did anything but get themselves in trouble--I am speaking of the

violent groups, of course. As for the Tolstoians and the Kropotkinians,

they were no more than mild academic philosophers. They couldn’t harm a

fly, and their violent cousins couldn’t.

“You see, the assassinations have been of all sorts. Had they been

political alone, or social, they might have been due to some hopelessly

secret society. But they were commercial and society as well.

Therefore, I concluded, the world must in some way have access to this

organization. But how? I assumed the hypothesis that there was some

man I wanted killed. And there I stuck. I did not have the address of

the firm that would perform that task for me. Here was the flaw in my

reasoning, namely, the hypothesis itself. I really did not want to kill

any man.

“But this flaw dawned on me afterwards, when Coburn, at the Federal

Club, told half a dozen of us of an adventure he had just had this

afternoon. To him it was merely a curious incident, but I caught at

once the gleam of light in it. He was crossing Fifth Avenue, downtown,

on foot, when a man, dressed like a mechanician, dismounted alongside

of him from a motorcycle and spoke to him. In a few words, the fellow

told him that if there were anyone he wanted put out of the world it

could be attended to with safety and dispatch. About that time Coburn

threatened to punch the fellow’s head, and he promptly jumped on his

motorcycle and made off.

“Now here’s the point. Coburn was in deep trouble. He had recently been

double-crossed (if you know what that means) by Mattison, his partner,

to the tune of a tremendous sum. In addition, Mattison had cleared out

for Europe with Coburn’s wife. Do you see? First, Coburn did have, or

might be supposed to have, or ought to have, a desire for vengeance

against Mattison. And secondly, thanks to the newspapers, the affair

was public property.”

“I see!” Grunya cried, with glowing eyes. “There was the flaw in your

hypothesis. Since you could not make public your hypothetical desire

to kill a man, the organization, naturally, could make no overtures to

you about it.”

“Correct. But I was no forwarder. Or yet, in a way, I was. I saw now

how the world got access to the organization and its service. From

then on I studied the mysterious and prominent murders with this in

mind, and I found, so far as the society ones were concerned, that they

were practically always preceded by sensational public exploitation

of scandal. The commercial murders--well, the shady and unfair

transactions of a fair proportion of the big businessmen are always

leaking out, even though they do not get into print. When Hawthorn

was found mysteriously dead on his yacht, the gossip of his underhand

dealings in the fight against the Combine had been in the clubs for

weeks. You may not remember them, but in their day the Atwater-Jones

scandal and the Langthorne-Haywards scandal were most sensationally

featured by the newspapers.

“So I became certain that this murder organization must approach

persons high in political, business, and social life. And I was also

certain that its overtures were not always rebuffed as in the case of

Coburn. I looked about me and wondered what ones of the very men I met

in the clubs or at directors’ meetings had patronized this firm of

men-killers. That I must be acquainted with such men I had no doubt,

but which ones were they? And imagine my asking them to give me the

address of the firm which they had employed to wipe out their enemies.

“But at last, and only now, have I got the direct clue. I kept close

eye on all my friends who were high in the world. When any one of them

was afflicted by a great trouble, I attached myself to him. For a time

this was fruitless, though there was one who must have availed himself

of the services of the organization, for, within six months, the man

who had been the cause of his trouble was dead. Suicide, the police

said.

“And then my chance came. You know of the furor of a few years ago

caused by the marriage of Gladys Van Martin with Baron Portos de

Moigne. It was one of those unfortunate international marriages. He was

a brute. He has robbed her and divorced her. The details of his conduct

have only just come out, and they are incredibly horrible. He has even

beaten her so badly that the physicians despaired of her life, for a

time, and, later, of her reason. And by French law he has possessed

himself of their children--two boys.

“Her brother, Percy Van Martin, and I were classmates at college. I

promptly made it a point to get in close with him. We’ve seen a good

deal of each other the last several weeks. Only the other day the thing

I was waiting for happened, and he told me of it. The organization

had approached him. Unlike Coburn, he did not drive the man away,

but heard him out. If Van Martin cared to go further in the matter,

he was to insert the single word MESOPOTAMIA in the personal column

of the _Herald_. I quickly persuaded him to let me take hold of the

affair. I inserted MESOPOTAMIA, as directed, and, acting as Van

Martin’s representative, I have seen and talked with one of the men

of the organization. He was only an underling, however. They are very

suspicious and careful. But tonight I shall meet the principal. It is

all arranged. And then....”

“Yes, yes,” Grunya cried eagerly. “And then?”

“I don’t know. I have no plans.”

“But the danger!”

Hall smiled reassuringly.

“I don’t imagine there will be any risk. I am coming merely to transact

some business with the firm, namely, the assassination of Percy Van

Martin’s ex-brother-in-law. Firms do not make a practice of killing

their clients.”

“But when they find out you are not a client?” she protested.

“I won’t be there at that time. And when they do find out, it will be

too late for them to do me any harm.”

* * * * *

“Be careful, do be careful,” Grunya urged as they parted at the door

half an hour later. “And you will come up for the week end?”

“Surely.”

“I’ll meet you at the station myself.”

“And I’ll meet your redoubtable uncle a few minutes afterwards, I

suppose.” He made a mock shiver. “He’s not a regular ogre, I hope.”

“You’ll love him,” she proclaimed proudly. “He is finer and better than

a dozen fathers. He never denies me anything. Not even--”

“Me?” Hall interrupted.

Grunya tried to meet him with an equal audaciousness, but blushed and

dropped her eyes, and the next moment was encircled by his arms.

_Chapter IV_

“So you are Ivan Dragomiloff?”

Winter Hall paused a moment to glance curiously around at the

book-lined walls and back again to the colorless blond in the black

skullcap, who had not risen to greet him.

“I must say access to you is made sufficiently difficult. It leads one

to believe that the--er--work of your Bureau is performed discreetly as

well as capably.”

Dragomiloff smiled the ghost of a pleased smile.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating a chair that faced him and that threw

the visitor’s face into the light.

Again Hall glanced around the room and back at the man before him.

“I am surprised,” was Hall’s comment.

“You expected low-browed ruffians and lurid melodrama, I suppose?”

Dragomiloff queried pleasantly.

“No, not that. I knew too keen a mind was required to direct the

operations of your--er--institution.”

“They have been uniformly successful.”

“How long have you been in business?--if I may ask.”

“Eleven years, actively--though there was preparation and elaboration

of the plan prior to that.”

“You don’t mind talking with me about it?” was Hall’s next query.

“Certainly not,” came the answer. “As a client, you are in the same

boat with me. Our interests are identical. And, since we never

blackmail our clients after the transaction is completed, our interests

remain identical. A little important information can do no harm, and I

don’t mind saying that I am rather proud of this organization. It is,

as you say, and if I immodestly say so myself, capably directed.”

“But I can’t understand,” Hall exclaimed. “You are the last person

in the world I should conceive of as being at the head of a band of

murderers.”

“And you are the last person in the world I should expect to find

here seeking the professional services of such a person,” was the

dry counter. “I like your looks. You are strong, honest, unafraid,

and, in your eyes is that undefinable yet unmistakable tiredness of

the scholar. You read a great deal, and study. You are as remarkably

different from my regular run of clients as I am, obviously, from the

person you expected to meet at the head of a band of murderers. Though

executioners is the better and truer description.”

“Never mind the name,” Hall answered. “It does not reduce my surprise

that you should be conducting this--er--enterprise.”

“Ah, but you scarcely know how we conduct it.” Dragomiloff laced and

interlaced his strong, lean fingers and meditated for further answer.

“I might explain that we conduct our trade with a greater measure of

ethics than our clients bring to us.”

“Ethics!” Hall burst into laughter.

“Yes, precisely; and I’ll admit it sounds funny in connection with an

Assassination Bureau.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“One name is as good as another,” the head of the Bureau went on

imperturbably. “But you will find, in patronizing us, a keener, a more

rigid standard of right-dealing than in the business world. I saw the

need of that at the start. It was imperative. Organized as we were,

outside the law, and in the very teeth of the law, success was only

to be gained by doing right. We have to be right with one another,

with our patrons, with everybody, and everything. You have no idea the

amount of business we turn away.”

“What!” Hall cried. “And why?”

“Because it would not be right to transact it. Don’t laugh, please.

In fact, we of the Bureau are all rather fanatical when it comes to

ethics. We have the sanction of right in all that we do. We must have

that sanction. Without it we could not last very long. Believe me, this

is so. And now to business. You have come here through the accredited

channels. You can have but one errand. Whom do you want executed?”

“You don’t know?” Hall asked in wonderment.

“Certainly not. That is not my branch. I spend no time drumming up

trade.”

“Perhaps, when I give you the man’s name, you will not find that

sanction of right. It seems you are judge as well as executioner.”

“Not executioner. I never execute. It is not my branch. I am the head.

I judge--locally, that is--and other members carry out the orders.”

“But suppose these others should prove weak vessels?” Dragomiloff

looked very pleased.

“Ah, that was the rub. I studied it a long time. Almost as conclusively

as anything else, it was that very thing that made me see that our

operations could be conducted only on an ethical basis. We have our own

code of right, and our own law. Only men of the highest ethical nature,

combined with the requisite physical and nervous stamina, are admitted

to our ranks. As a result, almost fanatically are our oaths observed.

There have been weak vessels--several of them.” He paused and seemed

to ponder sadly. “They paid the penalty. It was a splendid object

lesson to the rest.”

“You mean--?”

“Yes; they were executed. It had to be. But it is very rarely necessary

with us.”

“How do you manage it?”

“When we have selected a desperate, intelligent, and reasonable

man--this selecting, by the way, is done by the members themselves,

who, rubbing shoulders everywhere with all sorts of men, have better

opportunity than I for meeting and estimating strong characters.

When such a man is selected, he is tried out. His life is the pledge

he gives for his faithfulness and loyalty. I know of these men, and

have the reports on them. I rarely see them, unless they rise in the

organization, and by the same token very few of them ever see me.

“One of the first things done is to give a candidate an unimportant and

unremunerative murder--say, a brutal mate of some ship, or a bullying

foreman, a usurer, or a petty grafting politician. It is good for the

world to have such individuals out of it, you know. But to return.

Every step of the candidate in this, his first killing, is so marked

by us that a mass of testimony is gathered sufficient to convict him

before any court in this land. And the affair is so conducted that

this testimony proceeds from outside persons. We would not have to

appear. For that matter, we have never found it necessary to invoke the

country’s law for the castigation of a member.

“Well, when this initial task has been performed, the man is one of us,

tied to us body and soul. After that he is thoroughly educated in our

methods--”

“Does ethics enter into the curriculum?” Hall interrupted to ask.

“It does, it does,” was the enthusiastic response. “It is the most

important thing we teach our members. Nothing that is not founded on

right can endure.”

“You are an anarchist?” the visitor asked with sharp irrelevance.

The Chief of the Assassination Bureau shook his head.

“No; I am a philosopher.”

“It is the same thing.”

“With a difference. For instance, the anarchists mean well; but I

do well. Of what use is philosophy that cannot be applied? Take the

old-country anarchists. They decide on an assassination. They plan

and conspire night and day, at last strike the blow, and are almost

invariably captured by the police. Usually the person or personage they

try to kill gets off unscathed. Not so with us.”

“Don’t you ever fail?”

“We strive to make failure impossible. Any member who fails, because of

weakness or fear, is punished with death.” Dragomiloff paused solemnly,

his pale blue eyes shining with an exultant light. “We have never had a

failure. Or course, we give a man a year in which to perform his task.

Also, if it be a big affair, he is given assistants. And I repeat, we

have never had a failure. The organization is as near perfect as the

mind of man can make it. Even if I should drop out of it, die suddenly,

the organization would run on just the same.”

“Do you draw any line at accepting commissions?” Winter Hall asked.

“No; from emperor and king down to the humblest peasant--we accept them

all, if--and it is a big _if_--if their execution is decided to be

socially justifiable. And, once we have accepted payment, which is in

advance, you know, and have decided it to be right to make a certain

killing, that killing takes place. It is one of our rules.”

As Winter Hall listened, a wild idea flashed into his mind. So

whimsical was it, so almost lunatic, that he felt immeasurably

fascinated by it.

“You are very ethical, I must say,” he began, “a--what I might

call--ethical enthusiast.”

“Or monstrosity,” Dragomiloff added pleasantly. “Yes, I have quite a

penchant that way.”

“Anything you conceive to be right, that thing you will do.”

Dragomiloff nodded affirmation, and a silence fell, which he was the

first to break.

“You have some one in mind whom you wish removed. Who is it?”

“I am so curious,” was the reply, “and so interested, that I should

like to approach it tentatively ... you know, in arranging the terms

of the bargain. You surely must have a scale of prices, determined, of

course, by the position and influence of ... of the victim.”

Dragomiloff nodded.

“Suppose it were a king I wished removed?” Hall queried.

“There are kings and kings. The price varies. Is your man a king?”

“No; he is not a king. He is a strong man, but not of noble title.”

“He is not a president?” Dragomiloff asked quickly.

“No; he holds no official position whatever. In fact, he is a man in

private life. For what sum will you guarantee the removal of a man in

private life?”

“For such a man it would be less difficult and hazardous. He would come

cheaper.”

“Not so,” Hall urged. “I can afford to be generous in this. It is a

very difficult and hazardous commission I am giving you. He is a man of

powerful mind, of infinite wit and recourse.”

“A millionaire?”

“I do not know.”

“I would suggest forty thousand dollars as the price,” the head of the

Bureau concluded. “Of course, on learning his identity, I may have to

increase that sum. On the other hand, I may decrease it.”

Hall drew bills of large denomination from his pocketbook, counted

them, and handed them to the other.

“I imagined you did business on a currency basis,” he said, “and so

I came prepared. And, now, as I understand it, you will guarantee to

kill--”

“I do no killing,” Dragomiloff interrupted.

“You will guarantee to have killed any man I name.”

“That is correct, with the proviso, of course, that an investigation

shows his execution to be justifiable.”

“Good. I understand perfectly. Any man I name, even if he should be my

father, or yours?”

“Yes; though as it happens I have neither father nor son.”

“Suppose I named myself?”

“It would be done. The order would go forth. We have no concern with

the whims of our clients.”

“But suppose, say tomorrow or next week, I should change my mind?”

“It would be too late.” Dragomiloff spoke with decision. “Once an order

goes forth it can never be recalled. That is one of the most necessary

of our rules.”

“Very good. However, I am not the man.”

“Then who is he?”

“The name men know him by is Ivan Dragomiloff.”

Hall said it quietly enough, and just as quietly was it received.

“I want better identification,” Dragomiloff suggested.

“He is a native of Russia, I believe. I know he is a resident of New

York City. He is blond, remarkably blond, and of just about your size,

height, weight, and age.”

Dragomiloff’s pale-blue eyes looked long and steadily at his visitor.

At last he spoke.

“I was born in the province of Valenko. Where was your man born?”

“In the province of Valenko.”

Again Dragomiloff scrutinized the other with unwavering eyes.

“I am compelled to believe that you mean me.”

Hall nodded unequivocally.

“It is, believe me, unprecedented,” Dragomiloff went on. “I am puzzled.

Frankly, I cannot understand why you want my life. I have never seen

you before. We do not know each other. I cannot guess at the remotest

motive. At any rate, you forget that I must have a sanction of right

before I order this execution.”

“I am prepared to furnish it,” was Hall’s answer.

“But you must convince me.”

“I am prepared to do that. It was because I divined you to be what

you called yourself, an ethical monstrosity, that I conceived this

proposition and made it to you. I believe, if I can prove to you the

justification of your death, that you will carry it out. Am I right?”

“You are right.” Dragomiloff paused, and then his face lighted up with

a smile. “Of course, that would be suicide, and you know that this is

an Assassination Bureau.”

“You would give the order to one of your members. As I understand,

under pledge of his own life he would be compelled to carry out the

order.”

Dragomiloff looked even pleased.

“Very true. It goes to show how perfect is the machine I have created.

It is fitted to every contingency, even to this most unexpected one

developed by you. Come. You interest me. You are original. You have

imagination, fantasy. Pray show me the ethical sanction for my own

removal from this world.”

“Thou shalt not kill,” Hall began.

“Pardon me,” came the interruption. “We must get a basis for this

discussion, which I fear will quickly become academic. The point is,

you must prove to me that I have done such wrong that my death is

right. And I am to be judge. What wrong have I done? What person, not

a wrong-doer, have I ordered executed? In what way have I violated my

own sanctions of right conduct, or even have done wrong blunderingly or

unwittingly?”

“I understand, and I change my discourse accordingly. First, let me ask

if you were responsible for the death of John Mossman?”

Dragomiloff nodded.

“He was a friend of mine. I had known him all my life. There was no

evil in him. He harmed no one.”

Hall was speaking warmly, but the other’s raised hand and amused smile

made him pause.

“It was something like seven years ago that John Mossman built the

Fidelity Building. Where did he get the money? It was at that time that

he, who had all his life been a banker in a small, conservative way,

suddenly branched out in a number of large enterprises. You remember

the fortune he left. Where did he get it?”

Hall was about to speak, but Dragomiloff signified that he had not

finished.

“Not long before the building of the Fidelity, you will remember, the

Combine attacked Carolina Steel, bankrupted it, and then absorbed

the wreckage for a song. The president of Carolina Steel committed

suicide--”

“To escape the penitentiary,” Hall interpolated.

“He was tricked into doing what he did.”

Hall nodded and said, “I recollect. It was one of the agents of the

Combine.”

“That agent was John Mossman.”

Hall remained incredulously silent, while the other continued.

“I assure you I can prove it, and I will. But do me the courtesy of

accepting for a moment whatever statements I make. They will be proved,

and to your satisfaction.”

“Very well then. You killed Stolypin.”

“No; not guilty. The Russian Terrorists did that.”

“I have your word?”

“You have my word.”

Hall ranged over in his mind all the assassinations he had tabulated,

and made another departure.

“James and Hardman, president and secretary of the Southwestern

Federation of Miners--”

“We killed them,” Dragomiloff broke in. “And what was wrong about

it--mind you, wrong to me?”

“You are a humanist. The cause of labor, as that of the people, must

be dear to you. It was a great loss to organized labor, the deaths of

these two leaders.”

“On the contrary,” Dragomiloff replied. “They were killed in 1904.

For six years prior to that, the Federation had won not one victory,

while it had been decisively beaten in three disastrous strikes. In the

first six months after the two leaders were removed, the Federation won

the big strike of 1905, and from then to now has never ceased making

substantial gains.”

“You mean?” Hall demanded.

“I mean that the Mine Owners League did not bring about the

assassination. I mean that James and Hardman were secretly in the pay,

and in big pay, of the Mine Owners League. I mean that it was a group

of the miners themselves that laid the facts of their leaders’ treason

before us and paid the price we demanded for the service. We did it for

twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Winter Hall’s bafflement plainly showed, and he debated a long minute

before speaking.

“I believe you, Mr. Dragomiloff. Tomorrow or next day I should like

to go over the proofs with you. But that will be merely for formal

correctness. In the meantime I must find some other way to convince

you. This list of assassinations is a long one.”

“Longer than you think.”

“And I do not doubt but what you have found similar justification for

all of them. Mind you, not that I believe any one of these killings to

be right, but that I believe they have been right to you. Your fear

that the discussion would become academic was well founded. It is only

in that way that I can hope to get you. Suppose we defer it until

tomorrow. Will you lunch with me? Or where would you prefer us to meet?”

“Right here, I think, after lunch.” Dragomiloff waved his hand around

at his book-covered walls. “There are plenty of authorities, you see,

and we can always send out to the branch Carnegie Library around the

corner for more.”

He pressed the call button, and both arose as the servant entered.

“Believe me, I am going to get you,” was Hall’s parting assurance.

Dragomiloff smiled whimsically.

“I trust not,” he said. “But if you do it will be unique.”

_Chapter V_

For long days and nights the discussion between Hall and Dragomiloff

was waged. At first confined to ethics, it quickly grew wider and

deeper. Ethics being the capstone of all the sciences, they found

themselves compelled to seek down through those sciences to the

original foundations. Dragomiloff demanded of Hall’s _Thou shalt not

kill_ a more rigid philosophic sanction than religion had given it.

While, in order to be intelligible, and to reason intelligently, they

found it necessary to thresh out and ascertain each other’s most

ultimate beliefs and telic ideals.

It was the struggle of two scholars, and practical scholars at that;

yet more often than not the final result sought was lost in the

excitement and clash of ideas. And Hall did his antagonist the justice

of realizing that on his part it was purely a pursuit of truth. That

his life was the forfeit if he lost had no influence on Dragomiloff’s

reasoning. The question at issue was whether or not his Assassination

Bureau was a right institution.

Hall’s one thesis, which he never abandoned, to which he forced all

roads of argument to lead, was that the time had come in the evolution

of society when society, as a whole, must work out its own salvation.

The time was past, he contended, for the man on horseback, or for

small groups of men on horseback, to manage the destinies of society.

Dragomiloff, he insisted, was such a man, and his Assassination Bureau

was the steed he bestrode, by virtue of which he judged and punished,

and, within narrow limits it was true, herded and trampled society in

the direction he wanted it to go.

Dragomiloff, on the other hand, did not deny that he played the part

of the man on horseback, who thought for society, decided for society,

and drove society; but he did deny, and emphatically, that society

as a whole was able to manage itself, and that, despite blunders and

mistakes, social progress lay in such management of the whole by

itself. And this was the crux of the question, to settle which they

ransacked history and traced the social evolution of man up from the

minutest known details of primitive groupings to highest civilization.

In fact, so practical-minded were the two scholars, so unmetaphysical,

that they accepted social expediency as the determining factor and

agreed that it was in the highest way ethical. And in the end, measured

by this particular yardstick, Winter Hall won. Dragomiloff acknowledged

his own defeat, and, in his gratification and excitement, Hall’s

hand went impulsively out to him. Firmly, and despite his surprise,

Dragomiloff returned the grip.

“I see, now,” he said, “that I failed to lay sufficient stress on the

social factors. The assassinations have not been so much intrinsically

wrong as socially wrong. I even take part of that back. As between

individuals, they have not been wrong at all. But individuals are not

individuals alone. They are parts of complexes of individuals. There

was where I erred. It is dimly clear to me. I was not justified. And

now--” He broke off and looked at his watch. “It is two o’clock. We

have sat late. And now I am prepared to pay the penalty. Of course you

will give me time to settle my affairs before I give the order to my

agents?”

Hall, who in the height of debate had forgotten the terms of the

debate, was startled.

“I am not prepared for that,” he said. “And to tell the truth, it had

quite slipped my mind. Perhaps it is not necessary. You are yourself

convinced of the wrong of assassination. Suppose you disband the

organization. That will be sufficient.”

But Dragomiloff shook his head.

“An agreement is an agreement. I have accepted a commission from

you. Right is right, and this is where, I maintain, the doctrine of

social expediency does not apply. The individual, per se, has some

prerogatives left, and one of these is the keeping of one’s word. This

I must do. The commission shall be carried out. I am afraid it will be

the last handled by the Bureau. This is Saturday morning. Suppose you

give me until tomorrow night before issuing the order?”

“Tommyrot!” Hall exclaimed.

“That is not argument,” was the grave reproof. “Besides, all argument

is finished. I decline to hear any more. One thing, though, in

fairness: considering how difficult a person I shall be to assassinate,

I would suggest a further charge of at least ten thousand dollars.” He

held up his hand in token that he had more to say. “Oh, believe me, I

am modest. I shall make it so difficult for my agents that it will be

worth all of fifty thousand and more--”

“If you will only break up the organization--”

But Dragomiloff silenced him.

“The discussion is ended. This is now my affair. The organization will

be broken up in any event, but I warn you, according to our rules of

long standing, I may escape. As you will recollect, I promised you,

at the time the bargain was made, that if, at the end of a year, the

commission had not been fulfilled, the fee would be returned to you

plus five percent. If I escape I shall hand it to you myself.”

But Winter Hall waved his hand impatiently.

“Listen,” he said. “I insist on one statement. You and I are agreed

on the foundation of ethics. Social expedience being the basis of all

ethics--”

“Pardon me--” came the interruption “--of social ethics only. The

individual, in certain aspects, is still an individual.”

“Neither you nor I,” Hall continued, “accepts the old Judaic code of

an eye for an eye. We do not believe in punishment for crime. The

killings of your Bureau, while justified by crimes committed by the

victims, were not regarded by you as punishments. You looked upon your

victims as social ills, the extirpation of which would benefit society.

You removed them from the social organism on the same principle that

surgeons remove cancers. I caught that point of view of yours from the

beginning of the discussion.

“But to return. Not accepting the punishment theory, you and I regard

crime as a mere anti-social tendency, and as such, expediently and

arbitrarily, we classify it. Thus, crime is a social abnormality,

partaking of the nature of sickness. It _is_ sickness. The criminal,

the wrong-doer, is a sick man, and he should be treated accordingly, so

that he may be cured of his sickness.

“Now I come to you and to my point. Your Assassination Bureau was

anti-social. You believed in it. Therefore you were sick. Your belief

in assassination constituted your sickness. But now you no longer

believe. You are cured. Your tendency is no longer anti-social. There

is now no need for your death, which would be nothing else than

punishment for an illness of which you had already been cured. Disband

the organization and go out of business. That is all you have to do.”

“Are you done--quite done?” Dragomiloff queried suavely.

“Yes.”

“Then let me answer and end the argument. I conceived my Bureau in

righteousness, and I operated it in righteousness. Also, I created

it, made it the perfect thing that it is. Its foundation was certain

right principles. In all its history, not one of these principles was

violated. A particular one of these principles was that portion of

the contracts with our clients wherein we guaranteed to carry out any

commission we accepted. I accepted a commission from you. I received

forty thousand dollars. The agreement was that I should order my own

execution if you proved to my satisfaction that the assassinations

achieved by the Bureau were wrong. You have proved it. Nothing remains

but to live up to the agreement.

“I am proud of this institution. Nor shall I, with a last act, stultify

its basic principles, break the rules under which it operated. This

I hold is my right as an individual, and in no way does it conflict

with social expediency. I do not want to die. If I escape death for a

year, the commission I accepted from you, as you know, automatically

terminates. I shall do my best to escape. And now, not another word. I

am resolved. Concerning breaking up the Bureau, what would you suggest?”

“Give me the names and all details of all members. I shall then serve

notice on them to disband--”

“Not until after my death or until the year has expired,” Dragomiloff

objected.

“All right, after your death, or the expiration of the year, I shall

serve this notice, backed by the threat of going to the police with my

information.”

“They may kill you,” was the warning.

“Yes; they may. I shall have to take that chance.”

“You can avoid it. When you serve notice, inform them that all

information is placed in escrow in half a dozen different cities,

and that in event of your being killed it goes into the hands of the

police.”

It was three in the morning before the details for disbanding the

organization were arranged. It was at this time that a long silence

fell, broken at last by Dragomiloff.

“Do you know, Hall, I like you. You are an ethical enthusiast yourself.

You might almost have created the Bureau, than which I know no higher

compliment, because it is my belief that the Bureau is a remarkable

achievement. At any rate, not only do I like you, but I know I can

trust you. You would keep your word as I keep mine. Now, I have a

daughter. Her mother is dead and in the event of my death she would

be without kith or kin in the world. I should like to put her in your

charge. Are you willing to accept the responsibility?”

Hall nodded his acquiescence.

“She is a grown woman, so there is no need for guardianship papers.

But she is unmarried, and I shall leave her a great deal of money, the

investment of which you will have to see to. I am running out to see

her this afternoon. Will you come along? It is not far, only at Edge

Moor on the Hudson.”

“Why, I’m making a week-end visit to Edge Moor myself!” Hall exclaimed.

“Good. Whereabouts in Edge Moor?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

“Never mind. It is not a large place. You can spare a couple of hours

Sunday morning. I’ll run over for you in a machine. Telephone me where

and when to come. Suburban 245 is my number.”

Hall jotted the number down and rose to go.

Dragomiloff yawned as they shook hands.

“I wish you would reconsider,” the other urged.

But Dragomiloff yawned again, shook his head, and showed his visitor

out.

_Chapter VI_

Grunya ran the machine that carried Winter Hall from the station at

Edge Moor.

“Uncle is really eager to meet you,” she assured him. “He doesn’t know

who you are, yet. I teased him by not telling him. Perhaps it is the

teasing that accounts for his eagerness, for he certainly is eager.”

“Have you told him?” Hall asked significantly.

Grunya became suddenly absorbed in operating the car.

“What?” she asked.

For reply, Hall laid his hand on hers upon the steering wheel. She

ventured one glance at him, looking into his eyes with audacious

steadiness for a moment. Then the telltale flush betrayed her, the

steady gaze wavered, and with dropped eyes she returned to the steering.

“That might account for his eagerness,” Hall remarked quietly.

“I--I never thought of it.”

Her eyes were turned from him, but he could see the rosy warmth in her

cheek. After a minute he made another remark.

“It is a pity to shame so splendid a sunset with unveraciousness.”

“Coward,” she cried; but her enunciation made the epithet a love note.

And then she looked at him again, and laughed, and he laughed with

her, and both felt that the sunset was unsmirched and that the world

was very fair.

It was when they entered the driveway to the bungalow that he asked her

in what direction lay the Dragomiloff place.

“Never heard of it,” was her response. “Dragomiloff? No such person

lives in Edge Moor, I am sure. Why?”

“They may be recent comers,” he suggested.

“Perhaps so. And here we are. Grosset, take Mr. Hall’s suitcase.

Where’s Uncle?”

“In the library, writing, miss. He said not to disturb him till dinner.”

“Then at dinner you’ll meet,” she said to Hall. “And you’ll only just

have time. Show Mr. Hall his room, Grosset.”

Fifteen minutes later, Winter Hall, in the absence of Grunya, entered

the living room and found himself face to face with the man he had

parted from at three that morning.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Hall blurted out.

But the other’s composure was unshaken.

“Waiting to be introduced, I suppose,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I am Sergius Constantine. Grunya has certainly surprised both of us.”

“And you are also Ivan Dragomiloff?”

“Yes; but not in this house.”

“But I do not understand. You spoke of a daughter.”

“Grunya is my daughter, though she believes herself my niece. It is a

long story, which I shall make short, after dinner, when we get rid

of Grunya. But let me tell you now, that the situation is beautiful,

gratifyingly beautiful. You, whom I selected to watch over my Grunya, I

find are already--if I am right--her lover. Am I right?”

“I--I don’t know what to say,” Hall faltered, his wit for one time not

ready, his mind stunned by this most undreamed dénouement.

“Am I right?” Dragomiloff repeated.

“You are right,” came the answer, prompt at last. “I do love--her--I do

love Grunya. But does she know ... you?”

“Only as her uncle, Sergius Constantine, head of the importing house

of that name--here she comes. As I was saying, I agree with you in

preferring Turgenev to Tolstoy. Of course, this without detracting from

the power of Tolstoy. It is Tolstoy’s philosophy that is repugnant to

one who believes--ah, here you are, Grunya.”

“And already acquainted,” she pouted. “I had expected to be present

at such a momentous encounter.” She turned chidingly to Hall, while

Constantine’s arm encircled her waist. “Why didn’t you warn me you

could dress with such speed?”

She held out her free hand to him.

“Come,” she said, “let us go in to dinner.”

And in this manner, Constantine’s arm around Grunya, and she lightly

leading Hall by the hand, the three passed into the dining room.

At table Hall caught himself desiring to pinch himself in order to

disprove the reality of which he was a part. The situation was almost

too preposterously grotesque to be real--Grunya, whom he loved,

alternately tilting and smiling at her father whom she believed her

uncle, and whom she never dreamed was the originator and head of the

dread Assassination Bureau; he, Hall, whom Grunya loved in return,

joining in the badinage against the man to whom he had paid fifty

thousand dollars to order his own execution; and Dragomiloff himself,

unperturbed, complacent, unbending in the general mirth, until his

habitual frostiness thawed into actual geniality.

Afterwards, Grunya played and sang, until Dragomiloff, under the

double plea of an expected visitor and a desire for a man-talk with

Hall, advised her, in mock phrases of paternal patronage, that it was

bedtime for a chit of her years. With a parting fling, she said good

night and left them, her laughter rippling back through the open door.

Dragomiloff got up, closed it, and returned to his seat.

“Well?” Hall demanded.

“My father was a contractor in the Russian-Turkish War,” was the reply.

“His name was--well, never mind his name. He made a fortune of sixty

million rubles, which I, as an only son, inherited. At university I

became inoculated with radical ideas and joined the Young Russians.

We were a pack of Utopianists and dreamers, and of course we got into

trouble. I was in prison several times. My wife died of smallpox at

the same time that her brother Sergius Constantine died of the same

disease. This took place on my last estate. Our latest conspiracy had

leaked, and this time it meant Siberia for me. My escape was simple. My

brother-in-law, a pronounced conservative, was buried under my name,

and I became Sergius Constantine. Grunya was a baby. I got out of the

country easily enough, though what was left of my fortune fell into

the hands of the officials. Here in New York, where Russian spies are

more prevalent than you imagine, I maintained the fiction of my name.

And there you have it. I have even returned once to Russia, as my

brother-in-law, of course, and sold out his possessions. Too long did I

maintain the fiction; Grunya knew me as her uncle, and her uncle I have

remained. That is all.”

“But the Assassination Bureau?” Hall asked.

“Believing it was right, and stung by the charge that we Russians were

thinkers, not doers, I organized it. And it has worked, successfully,

perfectly. It has been a financial success as well. I proved that I

could act, as well as dream dreams. Grunya, however, still calls me a

dreamer. But she does not know. One moment.”

He went into the adjoining room and returned with a large envelope in

his hand.

“And now to other things. My expected visitor is the man to whom I

shall give the order of execution. I intended to do so tomorrow,

but your opportune presence tonight expedites matters. Here are my

instructions to you.” He handed over the envelope. “Grunya, legally,

must sign all papers, deeds, and such things, but you must advise her.

My will is in my safe. You will have to handle my funds for me until

I die or return. If I telegraph for money, or anything, you will do

as instructed. In this envelope is the cipher I shall use, which is

likewise the cipher used by the organization.

“There is a large emergency fund which I have handled for the Bureau.

This belongs to the members. I shall make you its custodian. The

members will draw upon it at need.” Dragomiloff shook his head with

simulated sadness and smiled. “I am afraid I shall prove very expensive

to them before they get me.”

“Heavens, man!” Hall cried. “You are furnishing them the sinews of war.

What you should do is to prevent their access to the fund.”

“That would not be fair, Hall. And I am so made that I must play

fairly. And I do you the honor to believe that in the matter you will

likewise play fairly and obey all my instructions. Am I right?”

“But you are asking me to furnish aid to the men who are going to

kill you, the father of the girl I love. It is preposterous. It is

monstrous. Put a stop to the whole thing now. Disband the organization

and be done with it.”

But Dragomiloff was adamant.

“My mind is made up. You know that. I must do what I believe to be

right. You will obey my instructions?”

“You are a monster! A stubborn, stiff-necked monster of absurd and

lunatic righteousness. You are a scholar’s mind degraded, you are

ethics gone mad, you are ... are....”

But Winter Hall failed in his quest for further superlatives, and

stuttered, and ceased. Dragomiloff smiled patiently.

“You will obey my instructions. Am I right?”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll obey them,” Hall cried angrily. “It is patent that

you will have your way. There is no stopping you. But why tonight?

Won’t tomorrow be time enough to start on this madman’s adventure?”

“No; I am eager to start. And you have hit the precise word. Adventure.

That is it. I have not had it since I was a boy, since I was a young

Bakuninite in Russia dreaming my boyish dreams of universal human

freedom. Since then, what have I done? I have been a thinking machine.

I have built up successful businesses. I have made a fortune. I have

invented the Assassination Bureau and run it. And that is all. I have

not lived. I have had no adventure. I have been a mere spider, a huge

brain thinking and planning in the midst of a web. But now I break the

web. I go forth on the adventure path. Why, do you know, I have never

killed a man in my life. Nor have I ever seen one killed. I was never

in a railroad accident. I know nothing of violence; I who possess the

vast strength of violence have never used that strength save in amity,

in boxing and wrestling and such exercises. Now I shall live, body and

brain, and play a new role. Strength!”

He held out his lean white hand and looked at it angrily.

“Grunya will tell you that I can bend a silver dollar between those

fingers. Was that all they were made for?--to bend dollars? Here, your

arm a moment.”

Merely between fingertips and thumb, he caught Hall’s forearm midway

from wrist to elbow. He pressed, and Hall was startled by the fierce

pang of the bruise. It seemed as if fingers and thumb would meet

through the flesh and bone. The next moment the arm was flung aside,

and Dragomiloff was smiling grimly.

“No damage,” he said, “though it will be black and blue for a week or

so. Now do you know why I want to get out of my web? I have vegetated

for a score of years. I have used those fingers to write my signature

and to turn the pages of books. From my web I have sent men out on the

adventure path. Now I shall play against those men, and I, too, shall

do. It will be a royal game. Mine was the master mind that made the

perfect machine. I created it. Never has it failed to destroy the man

appointed. I am now the man appointed. The question is: _is it greater

than I, its creator?_ Will it destroy its creator, or will its creator

outwit it?”

He stopped abruptly, looked at his watch, and pressed a bell.

“Have the car brought around,” he told the servant who responded, “put

into it the suitcase you will find in my bedroom.”

He turned to Hall as the servant left the room.

“And now my hegira begins. Haas should be here any moment.”

“Who is Haas?”

“Bar none and absolutely the most capable member we have. He has always

been given our most difficult and hazardous commissions. He is an

ethical fanatic, a Danite. No destroying angel was ever so terrible as

he. He is a flame. He is not a man at all, but a flame. You shall see

for yourself. There he is now.”

A moment later the man was shown in. Hall was shocked by the first

view of his face--a wasted, ravaged face, hollow-cheeked and sunken, in

which burned a pair of eyes the like of which could be experienced only

in nightmares. Such was the fire of them that the whole face seemed

caught up in the conflagration.

Hall acknowledged the introduction, and was surprised at the firm,

almost savagely firm, grip of the handshake. He noted the man’s

movements as he took a chair and seated himself. He seemed to move

cat-like, and Hall was confident that he was muscled like a tiger,

though all this was belied by the withered, blighted face, which gave

an impression that the rest of the body was a shrunken slender shell.

Slender the body was, but Hall could mark the bulge of the biceps and

shoulder muscles.

“I have a commission for you, Mr. Haas,” Dragomiloff began. “Possibly

it may prove the most dangerous and difficult one you have ever

undertaken.”

Hall could have sworn that the man’s eyes blazed even more fiercely at

the intimation.

“This case has received my sanction,” Dragomiloff continued. “It is

right, essentially right. The man must die. The Bureau has received

fifty thousand dollars for his death. According to our custom,

one-third of this sum will go to you. But so difficult am I afraid it

will prove, that I have decided your share shall be one-half. Here are

five thousand for expenses--”

“The amount is unusual,” Haas broke in, licking his lips as if they

were parched by the flame of his being.

“The man you are to kill is unusual,” Dragomiloff retorted. “You will

need to call upon Schwartz and Harrison immediately to assist you. If,

after a time, the three of you have failed--”

Haas snorted incredulously, and the fever that seemed consuming him

burned up with increasing heat in his lean and avid face.

“If after a time, the three of you have failed, call upon the whole

organization.”

“Who is the man?” Haas demanded, and he bit the words out almost in a

snarl.

“One moment.” Dragomiloff turned to Hall. “What shall you tell Grunya?”

Hall considered for a space.

“A half-truth will do. I sketched the organization to her before I knew

you. I can tell her you are menaced. That will suffice. And no matter

what the outcome, she need never know the rest.”

Dragomiloff bowed his approbation.

“Mr. Hall is to serve as secretary,” he explained to Haas. “He has the

cipher. All applications for money and everything else will be made to

him. Keep him informed from time to time of progress.”

“Who is the man?” Haas rasped out again.

“One minute, Mr. Haas. There is one thing I want to impress on you.

Your pledge you remember. No matter who the person may be, you know

that you must perform the task. You know in every way you must avoid

risking your own life. You know what failure means, that all your

comrades are sworn to kill you if you fail.”

“I know all that,” Haas interrupted. “It is unnecessary.”

“It is my wish to have you absolutely straight on this point. No matter

who the person--”

“Father, brother, wife--ay, the devil himself, or God--I understand.

Who is the man? Where will I find him? You know me. When I have

anything to do, I want to do it.”

Dragomiloff turned to Hall with a smile of gratification.

“As I told you, I selected our best agent.”

“We are wasting time,” Haas muttered impatiently.

“Very well,” Dragomiloff answered. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“I, Ivan Dragomiloff, am the man.”

Haas was staggered by the unexpectedness of it.

“You?” he whispered, as if louder speech had been scorched from his

throat.

“I,” Dragomiloff answered simply.

“Then there is no time like now,” Haas said swiftly, at the same time

moving his right hand towards his side pocket.

But even more swift was the leap of Dragomiloff upon him. Before Hall

could rise from his chair the thing had happened and the danger was

past. He saw Dragomiloff’s two thumbs, end on, crooked and rigid,

drive into the two hollows at either side of the base of Haas’s neck.

So quickly that it was practically simultaneous, at the instant of

the first driven contact of the thumbs, Haas’s hand stopped moving in

the direction of the weapon in his pocket. Both his hands shot up and

clutched spasmodically at the other’s hands. Haas’s face was distorted

in an expression of incredible and absolute agony. He writhed and

twisted for a minute, then his eyes closed, his hands dropped, his body

went limp, and Dragomiloff eased him down to the floor, the flame of

him quenched in unconsciousness.

Dragomiloff rolled him on his face, and, with a handkerchief, knotted

his hands behind his back. He worked quickly, and as he worked he

talked.

“Observe, Hall, the first anaesthetic ever used in surgery. It is

purely mechanical. The thumbs press on the carotid arteries, shutting

off the blood supply to the brain. The Japanese practiced it in

surgical operations for centuries. If I had held the pressure for a

minute or so more, the man would be dead. As it is, he will regain

consciousness in a few seconds. See! He is moving now.”

He rolled Haas over on his back; his eyes fluttered open and rested on

Dragomiloffs face in a puzzled way.

“I told you it was a difficult case, Mr. Haas,” Dragomiloff assured

him. “You have failed in the first attempt. I am afraid that you will

fail many times.”

“You’ll give a run for my money, I guess,” was the answer. “Though why

you want to be killed is beyond me.”

“But I don’t want to be killed.”

“Then why under the sun have you given me the order?”

“That’s my business, Mr. Haas. And it is your business to see that you

do your best. How does your throat feel?”

The recumbent man rolled his head back and forth.

“Sore,” he announced.

“It is a trick you ought to learn.”

“I know it now,” Haas rejoined, “and I am very much aware of the

precise place in which to insert the thumbs. What are you going to do

with me?”

“Take you along with me in the car and drop you by the roadside. It’s a

warm night, so you won’t catch cold. If I left you here, Mr. Hall might

untie you before I got started. And now I think I’ll bother you for

that weapon in your coat-pocket.”

Dragomiloff leaned over, and from the pocket in question drew forth an

automatic pistol.

“Loaded for big game and cocked and ready,” he said, examining it.

“All he had to do was to drop the safety lever with his thumb and pull

the trigger. Will you walk to the car with me, Mr. Haas?”

Haas shook his head.

“This is more comfortable than the roadside.”

For reply, Dragomiloff bent over him and lightly effected his terrible

thumb grip on the throat.

“I’ll walk,” Haas gasped.

Quickly and lightly, though his arms were tied behind him, and

apparently without effort, the recumbent man rose to his feet, giving

Hall a hint of the tiger-muscles with which he was endowed.

“It’s all right,” Haas grumbled. “I’m not kicking, and I’ll take my

medicine. But you caught me unexpectedly, and I’ll tell you one thing.

It is that you can’t do it again, or anything else.”

Dragomiloff turned and spoke to Hall.

“The Japanese claim seven different death-touches, but I only know

four. And this man dreams he could best me in physical encounter. Mr.

Haas, let me tell you one thing. You see the edge of my hand. Omitting

the death-touches and everything else, merely using the edge of that

hand like a cleaver, I can break your bones, disjoint your joints, and

rupture your tendons. Pretty good, eh, for the thinking machine you

have always known? Come on; let us start. This way for the adventure

path. Goodbye, Hall.”

The front door closed behind them, and Winter Hall, stupefied,

looked about him at the modern room in which he stood. He was more

pervaded than ever by the impression of unrealness. Yet that was a

grand piano over there, and those were the current magazines on the

reading table. He even glanced over their familiar names in an effort

to orient himself. He wondered if he were going to wake up in a few

minutes. He glanced at the titles of a table-rack of books--evidently

Dragomiloff’s. There, incongruously cheek by jowl, were Mahan’s

_Problem of Asia_, Buckner’s _Force and Matter_, Wells’s _Mr. Polly_,

Nietzsche’s _Beyond Good and Evil_, Jacob’s _Many Cargoes_, Veblen’s

_Theory of the Leisure Class_, Hyde’s _From Epicurus to Christ_, and

Henry James’s latest novel--all forsaken by this strange mind which had

closed the page of its life on books and fared forth into an impossible

madness of adventure.

_Chapter VII_

“There is no use waiting for your uncle,” Hall told Grunya next

morning. “We must eat breakfast and start for town.”

“We?” she asked in frank wonder. “What for?”

“To get married. Before his departure, your uncle made me your

unofficial guardian, and it seems to me that the best thing to do is to

make my position official--that is, if you have no serious objections.”

“I have, decidedly,” was her reply. “In the first place, I dislike

being bullied into anything, even into so gratifying a thing as

marriage with you. And next, I detest mystery. Where is Uncle? What has

happened? Where did he go? Did he catch an early train for the city?

And why should he go to the city on Sunday?”

Hall looked at her gloomily.

“Grunya, I am not going to tell you to be brave and all that

fol-de-rol. I know you, and it is unnecessary.” He noted growing alarm

in her face and hurried on. “I don’t know when your uncle will return.

I don’t know if he will ever return, or if you will ever see him again.

Listen. You remember that Assassination Bureau I told you about?”

She nodded.

“Well, it has selected him for its next victim. He has fled, that is

all, in an attempt to escape.”

“Oh! But this is outrageous!” she cried. “My Uncle Sergius! This is

the twentieth century. They don’t do things like that now. This is some

joke you and he are playing on me.”

And Hall, wondering what she would think if she knew the whole truth

concerning her uncle, smiled grimly.

“On my honor, it is true,” he assured her. “Your uncle has been

selected as the next victim. You remember he was writing a great deal

yesterday afternoon. He had had his warning and was getting his affairs

in shape and preparing his instructions for me.”

“But the police. Why has he not appealed to them for protection from

this band of cutthroats?”

“Your uncle is a peculiar man. He won’t listen to any suggestion of the

police. Furthermore, he has made me promise to keep the police out of

it.”

“But not me,” she interrupted, starting towards the door. “I shall call

them up at once.”

Hall caught her by the wrist, and she swung angrily around on him.

“Listen, dear,” he said placatingly. “The whole thing is madness, I

know. It is the sheerest impossible lunacy. Yet it is so, it is true,

every last bit of it. Your uncle does not want the police brought in.

It is his wish. It is his command to me. If you violate his wish, it

will be because I have made the mistake of telling you. I am confident

I have made no mistake.”

He released her, and she hesitated on the threshold.

“It can’t be!” she exclaimed. “It is unbelievable! It--it--oh, you are

joking!”

“It is unbelievable to me, too, yet I am compelled to believe. Your

uncle packed a suitcase last night and left. I saw him go. He said

goodbye to me. He put me in charge of his affairs and yours. Here are

his instructions on that score.”

Hall drew out his pocketbook and selected several sheets of paper in

the unmistakable handwriting of Sergius Constantine.

“And here, also, is a note to you. He was in great haste, you know.

Come in and read them at breakfast.”

It was a depressing meal, Grunya taking nothing more than a cup

of coffee, and Hall toying half-heartedly with an egg. The final

convincing of Grunya was brought about by a telegram addressed to

Hall. The fact that it was in cipher, and that he possessed the key,

satisfied her, but did not diminish the mystery.

“_Shall let you hear from me from time to time_,” Hall translated it.

“_Love to Grunya. Tell her you have my consent to marry her. The rest

depends on her._”

“By this telegram I hope to be able to keep track of his movements,”

Hall explained. “And now let us go and be married.”

“While he is a hunted creature over the face of the earth? Never!

Something must be done. We must do something. I thought you were going

to destroy this nest of murderers. Destroy it, then, and save him.”

“I can’t explain everything to you,” he said gently. “But this is part

of the program for destroying them. I did not plan it this way, but

it got beyond me. I can tell you this much, though. If your uncle can

escape for a year he will be immune; he will never be endangered again.

And I think he can avoid his pursuers for that long. In the meantime I

shall do everything in my power to aid him, though his own instructions

limit me, as, for instance, when he says that under no circumstances

are the police to be called in.”

“When the year is up, then I shall marry,” was Grunya’s final judgment.

“Very well. And in the meantime, today, are you going in to stop in the

city, or will you remain here?”

“I am going in on the next train.”

“So am I.”

“Then we’ll go in together,” Grunya said, with the first faint hint of

a smile that morning.

It proved a busy day for Hall. Parting from Grunya when town was

reached, he devoted himself to Dragomiloff’s affairs and instructions.

The manager of S. Constantine & Co. was stubbornly suspicious of Hall,

despite the letter he delivered to him in his employer’s handwriting.

And when Hall called up Grunya on the telephone to confirm him, the

manager doubted that it was Constantine’s niece at the other end of the

wire. So Grunya was compelled to come in person and substantiate Hall’s

statements.

Following upon that he and Grunya lunched together, after which, alone,

he went to take possession of Dragomiloff’s quarters. Certain that

Grunya knew nothing about the rooms where the deaf mute presided, Hall

had sounded her and found that he was right.

The deaf mute made little trouble. By talking straight to him so that

he could watch the lips, Hall discovered that conversation was no more

difficult than with an ordinary person. On the other hand, the mute

was forced to write whatever he wished to communicate to Hall. Upon

receiving the letter which Hall presented from Dragomiloff, the fellow

immediately pressed it to his nose and sniffed long and carefully.

Satisfied by this means of its genuineness, he accepted Hall as the

temporary master of the place.

That evening Hall had three callers. The first, a rotund, bewhiskered,

and genial person who gave the name of Burdwell, was one of the agents

of the Bureau. By reference to the list of descriptions of the members,

Hall identified him, though not by the name he had given.

“Your name is not Burdwell,” Hall said.

“I know it,” was the answer. “Perhaps you can tell me what is.”

“I can. It is Thompson--Sylvanius Thompson.”

“It sounds familiar,” was the jolly response. “Perhaps you can tell me

something more.”

“You have been associated with the organization for five years. You

were born in Toronto. You are forty-seven years old. You were professor

of sociology at Barlington University, and you were forced to resign

because your economic teachings offended the founder. You have carried

out twelve commissions. Shall I name them for you?”

Sylvanius Thompson held up a warning hand.

“We do not mention such occurrences.”

“We do in this room,” Hall retorted.

The ex-professor of sociology immediately acknowledged the correctness

of the statement.

“No use naming them all,” he said. “Give me the first and the last, and

I’ll know I can talk business with you.”

Again Hall referred to the list.

“Your first was Sig Lemuels, a police magistrate. It was your entrance

test. Your last was Bertram Festle, who was supposed to have been

drowned while going aboard his yacht at Bar Point.”

“Very good.” Sylvanius Thompson paused to light a cigar. “I merely

wanted to make sure, that’s all. I’ve never met anybody but the Chief

here, so it was rather unprecedented to have to deal with a stranger.

Now to business. I haven’t had a commission for some time now, and

funds are running low.”

Hall drew out a typed copy he had made of Dragomiloff’s instructions

and read a certain paragraph carefully.

“There is nothing on hand now,” he said. “But here is two thousand

dollars with which to keep going. This is an advance on future

services. Keep closely in touch, for you may be needed any time. The

Bureau has a big affair on hand, and the assistance of all its members

may be called for any time. In fact, I am empowered to tell you that

the very life of the organization is at stake. Your receipt, please.”

The ex-professor signed the receipt, puffed at his cigar, and evidenced

no intention of going.

“Do you like to kill men?” Hall asked bluntly.

“Oh, I don’t mind it,” answered Thompson, “though I can’t say that I

like it. But one must live. I have a wife and three children.”

“Do you believe your way of making a living is right?” was Hall’s next

question.

“Certainly; else I would not make my living that way. Besides, I am not

a murderer. I am an executioner. No man is ever removed by the Bureau

without cause--and by that I mean righteous cause. Only arch-offenders

against society are removed, as you know yourself.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Professor, that I know very little about it.

It is true, though I am in temporary charge of the Bureau and acting

under most rigid instructions. Tell me, may you not place mistaken

faith in the Chief?”

“I do not follow.”

“I mean ethical faith. May he not be mistaken in his judgments? May he

not select you, for instance, to kill--I beg pardon--to execute, a man

who is not an arch-offender against society, or who may be entirely

innocent of the misdeeds charged against him?”

“No, young man, that cannot happen. Whenever a commission is offered

me--and I presume this is true of the other members--I first of all

call for the evidence and weigh it carefully. I once even declined

a certain commission because of reasonable doubt. It is true, I was

afterwards proved wrong, but the principle was there, you see. Why,

the Bureau could not last a year if it were not impregnably founded

on right. I, for one, could not look my wife in the eyes nor take my

innocent children in my arms did I believe it to be otherwise with the

Bureau and the commissions I carry out for the Bureau.”

Next, after the ex-professor, came Haas, livid and hungry-looking, to

report progress.

“The Chief is headed towards Chicago,” he began. “He ran his auto

clear through to Albany and got away on the New York Central. His

Pullman berth was for Chicago. I was too late to follow him, so I got

a wire to Schwartz in the city here, who caught the next train. Also I

telegraphed to the head of the Chicago Bureau--you know him?”

“Yes; Starkington.”

“I telegraphed him, telling him the situation and to put a couple

of members after the Chief. Then I came on to New York in order to

get Harrison. The two of us leave for Chicago the first thing in the

morning, if, in the meantime, no word comes from Starkington that they

have got him.”

“But you have exceeded your instructions,” Hall objected. “I heard

Drag--the Chief explicitly tell you that Schwartz and Harrison were

to assist, and that the aid of the rest of the organization was to be

called for only after the three of you had failed, and failed for a

considerable time. You haven’t failed yet. You have not even really

begun.”