“Evidently you know little about our system,” Haas replied. “It has

always been our custom when a chase leads to other cities to call upon

any of the members who may be in those cities.”

As Hall was about to speak, the deaf mute entered with a telegram

addressed to Dragomiloff. Hall opened it and found it was from

Starkington. He decoded it and then read it aloud to Haas.

“Has Haas gone crazy? Have received word from Haas that you

appointed him to execute you, that you are headed for Chicago, and

that I am to detail two members to fix you. Haas has never lied

before. He must be crazy. He may prove dangerous. See to him.”

“That is what Harrison said when I told him not an hour ago,” was

Haas’s comment. “But I do not lie, and I am not crazy. You must fix

this up, Mr. Hall.”

Assisted by Haas, Hall composed a reply.

“Haas is neither lunatic nor liar. What he says is correct.

Cooperate with him as requested.

Winter Hall, Temporary Secretary.”

“I’ll send it myself,” Haas said, as he rose to go.

A few minutes later Hall was telephoning to Grunya that her uncle

was headed towards Chicago. This was followed by an interview with

Harrison, who came privily to verify what Haas had told him, and who

went away convinced.

Hall sat down alone to think things over. He glanced about at the

book-cluttered walls and table, and the old feeling of unreality came

over him. How could it be possible that there was an Assassination

Bureau composed of ethical lunatics? And how could it be possible that

he, who had set out to destroy this Assassination Bureau, was now

actually managing it from its headquarters, and directing the pursuit

and probable killing of the man who had created the Bureau, who was

the father of the woman he loved, and whom he wished to save for his

daughter’s sake--how could it be possible?

And to prove that it was all true and real, a second telegram arrived

from the head of the Chicago branch.

“Who in hell are you?” it demanded.

“Temporary acting secretary appointed by the Chief,” was Hall’s

reply.

Hall was awakened from sleep several hours later by a third Chicago

telegram.

“Everything too irregular. Decline further communication with you.

Where is the Chief?

Starkington.”

“Chief gone to Chicago. Watch incoming trains and get him to verify

instructions to Haas. I don’t care if you never communicate.”

Hall flashed back.

By noon of next day Starkington’s messages began to arrive thick and

fast.

“Have met Chief. He verifies everything. Accept my apology. He

broke my arm and got away. Have commissioned the four Chicago

members to get him.”

“Schwartz has just arrived.”

“Think Chief may head west. Am wiring St. Louis, Denver, and San

Francisco to watch for him. This may prove expensive. Forward money

for contingencies.”

“Dempsey has three broken ribs and right arm paralyzed. Paralysis

not permanent. Chief got away.”

“Chief is still in Chicago but cannot locate him.”

“St. Louis, Denver, and San Francisco have replied. They tell me I

am crazy. Will you please verify?”

This last wire had been preceded by messages from the three mentioned

cities, all incredulous of Starkington’s sanity, and Hall had replied

to them as he originally replied to Starkington.

It was while this muddle was pending that Hall, struck by an idea, sent

a long telegram to Starkington and made a still greater muddle.

“Stop pursuit of Chief. Call a conference of Chicago members and

consider following proposition. Judgment of execution of Chief

irregular. Chief passed judgment on himself. Why? He must be crazy.

It will not be right to kill one who has done no wrong. What wrong

has Chief done? Where is your sanction?”

That this was a poser, and that it stopped Chicago’s hand, was proved

by the reply.

“Have talked it over. You are right. Chief’s judgment on self

invalid. Chief has done no wrong. Shall leave him alone. Dempsey’s

arm is better. All are agreed that Chief must be crazy.”

Hall was jubilant. He had played these ethical madmen to the top of

their madness. Dragomiloff was safe. That evening he took Grunya to the

theatre and to supper and encouraged her with sanguine hopes for her

uncle. But on his return home he found a sheaf of telegrams awaiting

him.

“Have received wire from Chicago calling off Chief deal. Your last

wire contradicts this. What are we to conclude?

St. Louis.”

“Chicago now cancels orders against Chief. By our rules no order

ever canceled. What is the matter?

Denver.”

“Where is Chief? Why doesn’t he communicate with us? Chicago by

latest wire has receded from earlier position. Is everybody crazy?

Or is it a joke?

San Francisco.”

“Chief still in Chicago. Met Carthey on State Street. Tried to

entice Carthey into following him. Then followed Carthey and

reproached him. Carthey said nothing doing. Chief very angry.

Insists killing order be carried out.

Starkington.”

“Chief encountered Carthey later. Committed unprovoked assault on

Carthey. Carthey not injured.

Starkington.”

“Chief called on me. Upbraided me bitterly. Told him your message

had changed our minds. Chief furious. Is he crazy?

Starkington.”

“Your interference is spoiling everything. What right have you to

interfere? This must be rectified. What are you trying to do? Reply.

Drago.”

“Trying to do the right thing. You cannot violate your own rules.

Members have no sanction to perform act.”

was Hall’s reply.

“Bosh.”

was Dragomiloff’s last word for the night.

_Chapter VIII_

It was not till eleven on the following morning that Hall received word

of Dragomiloff’s next play. It came from the Chief himself.

“Have sent this message to all branches. Have given it in person to

Chicago branch which will verify. I believe that our organization

is wrong. I believe all its work has been wrong. I believe every

member, wittingly or not, to be wrong. Consider this your sanction

and do your duty.”

Soon the verdicts of the branches began to pour in on Hall, who smiled

as he forwarded them to Dragomiloff. One and all were agreed that no

reason had been advanced for taking the Chief’s life.

“A belief is not a sin,” said New Orleans.

“It is not incorrectness of a belief but insincerity of a belief

that makes a crime,” was Boston’s contribution to the symposium.

“Chief’s honest belief is no wrong,” concluded St. Louis.

“Ethical disagreement does not constitute any sanction whatever,”

announced Denver.

While San Francisco flippantly remarked, “The only thing for the

Chief to do is to retire from control or forget it.”

Dragomiloff replied by sending out another general message. It ran:

“My belief is about to take form of deeds. Believing organization

to be wrong, I shall stamp out organization. I shall personally

destroy members, and if necessary shall have recourse to the

police. Chicago will verify this to all branches. I shall shortly

afford even stronger sanction for branches to proceed against me.”

Hall waited for the replies with keen interest, confessing to himself

his inability to forecast what this society of righteous madmen would

conclude next. It turned out to be a division of opinion. Thus San

Francisco:

“Sanction O.K. Await instructions.”

Denver advised:

“Recommend Chicago branch examine Chief’s sanity. We have good

sanatoriums up here.”

New Orleans complained:

“Is everybody crazy? We are without sufficient data. Will somebody

straighten this matter out?”

Said Boston:

“In this crisis we must keep our heads. Perhaps Chief is ill. This

must be ascertained satisfactorily before any decision is reached.”

It was after this that Starkington wired to suggest that Haas,

Schwartz, and Harrison be returned to New York. To this Hall agreed,

but hardly had he got the telegram off, when a later one from

Starkington changed the complexion of the situation.

“Carthey has just been murdered. Police looking for slayer but

have no clues. It is our belief that Chief is responsible. Please

forward to all branches.”

Hall, as the focal communicating point of the branches, was now fairly

swamped in a sea of telegrams. Twenty-four hours later Chicago had even

more startling information.

“Schwartz throttled at three this afternoon. There is no doubt this

time of Chief. Police are pursuing him. So are we. Has dropped

from sight. All branches be on the lookout. It means trouble. Am

proceeding without sanction of branches, but should like same.”

And promptly the sanctions poured in on Hall. Dragomiloff had achieved

his purpose. At last the ethical madmen were aroused and after him.

Hall himself was in a quandary, and cursed his ethical nature that

made him value a promise. He was convinced, now, that Dragomiloff was

really a lunatic, having burst forth from his quiet book-and-business

life and become a homicidal maniac. That he had promised a maniac

various things brought up the question whether or not, ethically, he

was justified in breaking those promises. His common sense told him

that he was justified--justified in informing the police, justified

in bringing about the arrests of all the members of the Assassination

Bureau, justified in anything that promised to put a stop to the orgy

of killing that seemed impending. But above his common sense was his

ethics, and at times he was convinced that he was as mad as any of the

madmen with whom he dealt.

To add to his perplexity, Grunya, who managed to get his address from

the telephone number he had given her, paid him a call.

“I have come to say goodbye,” was her introduction. “What comfortable

rooms you have. And what a curious servant. He never spoke a word to

me.”

“Goodbye?” Hall queried. “Are you going back to Edge Moor?”

She shook her head and smiled airily.

“No; Chicago. I am going to find Uncle, and to help him if I can. What

last word have you received? Is he still in Chicago?”

“By the last word....” Hall hesitated. “Yes, by the last word he had

not left Chicago. But you can’t be of any help, and it is unwise of you

to go.”

“I’m going just the same.”

“Let me advise you, dear.”

“Not until the year is up--except in business matters. In fact I came

to turn my little affairs over to you. I go on the Twentieth Century

this afternoon.”

Argument with Grunya was useless, but Hall was too sensible to quarrel,

and parted from her in appropriate lover fashion, remaining in the

headquarters of the Assassination Bureau to manage its lunatic affairs.

Nothing happened of moment for another twenty-four hours. Then it came,

an avalanche of messages, precipitated by one from Starkington.

“Chief still here. Broke Harrison’s neck today. Police do not

connect case with Schwartz. Please call for help on all branches.”

Hall sent out this general call, and an hour later received the

following from Starkington:

“Broke into hospital and killed Dempsey. Has definitely left city.

Haas in pursuit. St. Louis take warning.”

“Rastenaff and Pillsworthy start immediately,” Boston informed Hall.

“Lucoville has been dispatched to Chicago,” said New Orleans.

“Not sending anybody. Are waiting for Chief to arrive,” St. Louis

advised.

And then Grunya’s Chicago wail:

“Have you any later news?”

He did not answer this, but very shortly received a second from her.

“Do please help me if you have heard.”

Hall replied:

“Has left Chicago. Probably heading towards St. Louis. Let me join

you.”

And to this, in turn, he received no answer, and was left to

contemplate the flight of the Chief of the Assassins, pursued by his

daughter and the assassins of four cities, and heading towards the nest

of assassins waiting in St. Louis.

Another day went by, and another. The van of pursuers arrived in St.

Louis, but there was no sign of Dragomiloff. Haas was reported missing.

Grunya could find no trace of her uncle. Only the head of the branch

remained in Boston, and he informed Hall that he would follow if

anything further happened. In Chicago there was left only Starkington

with his broken arm.

But at the end of another forty-eight hours, Dragomiloff struck again.

Rastenaff and Pillsworthy had arrived in St. Louis in the early

morning. Each, perforated by a small-calibre bullet, had been carried

from his Pullman berth by men sent from the coroner’s office. The two

St. Louis members were likewise dead. The head of that branch, the only

survivor, sent the information. Haas had reappeared, but no explanation

of his four days’ disappearance was vouchsafed. Dragomiloff had again

dropped out of sight. Grunya was inconsolable and bombarded Hall with

telegrams. The head of the Boston branch sent word that he had started.

And so did Starkington, despite his injury. San Francisco was of the

opinion that Denver would be the Chief’s next point, and sent two men

there to reinforce; while Denver, of the same opinion, kept her two men

in readiness.

All this made big inroads on the emergency fund of the Bureau, and it

was with satisfaction that Hall, adhering to his instructions, wired

sum after sum of money to the different men. If the pace were kept up,

he decided, the Bureau would be bankrupt before the end of the year.

And then came a slack period. All members having gone to the West,

and being in touch with each other there, nothing was left for Hall

to do. He endured the suspense and idleness for a day or so; then,

making financial arrangements and arranging with the deaf mute for the

forwarding of telegrams, he closed up the headquarters of the Bureau

and bought a ticket for St. Louis.

_Chapter IX_

In St. Louis, Hall found no change in the situation. Dragomiloff had

not reappeared and everybody was waiting for something to happen. Hall

attended a conference at Murgweather’s house. Murgweather was the head

of the St. Louis branch, and lived with his family in a comfortable

suburban bungalow. All were gathered when Hall arrived, and he

immediately recognized Haas, the lean flame of a man, and Starkington

he knew by the arm in splints and sling.

“Who is the man?” demanded Lucoville, the New Orleans member, when Hall

was being introduced.

“Temporary Secretary of the Bureau,” Murgweather started to explain.

“It is entirely too irregular to suit me,” Lucoville snapped back.

“He is not one of us. He has killed no man. He has passed no test of

the organization. Not only is his appearance among us unprecedented,

but for men who pursue such a hazardous vocation as ours his presence

is a menace. And in connection with this, I wish to point out two

things. First, by reputation he is known to all of us. I have nothing

derogatory to say about his work in the world. I have read his books

with interest, and, I may add, profit. His contributions to sociology

have been distinct and distinctive. On the other hand, though, he is

a socialist. He is called the ‘Millionaire Socialist.’ What does that

mean? It means that he is out of touch with us and our principles

of conduct. It means that he is a blind creature of Law. Law is his

fetish. He grovels in the mire of ignorance and worships Law. To

him, we, who are above the Law, are arch-offenders against the Law.

Therefore, his presence bodes no good for us. He is bound to destroy us

for the sake of his fetish. This is only in the nature of things. This

is the dictate of both his personal and his philosophical temperament.

“And secondly, notice that of all times, it is in this time of crisis

to the organization that he has chosen to intrude. Who has vouched for

him? Who has admitted him to our secrets? Only one man, and that man

the Chief, the one who is now bent on destroying us, who has already

killed six of our members and who threatens to expose us to the police.

This looks bad, very bad, for him and us. He is the enemy within our

ranks. It is my suggestion that we put him away--”

“Pardon me, my dear Lucoville,” Murgweather interrupted. “This

discussion is out of order. Mr. Hall is my guest.”

“All our heads are in the noose,” retorted the member from New Orleans.

“And guest or no guest, this is no time for social amenities. The man

is a spy. He is bent on destroying us. I charge him with it in his

presence. What has he to say?”

Hall glanced around at the circle of suspicious faces, and, with the

exception of Lucoville, he noted that none was angry. In truth, he

decided, they were mad philosophers.

Murgweather made a vain effort to interpose, but was overruled.

“What have you to say, Mr. Hall?” Hanover, the head of the Boston

branch, demanded.

“If I may sit down, I shall be glad to reply,” was Hall’s answer.

Apologies were rendered all around, and he was ensconced in a big

armchair that was drawn up to form one of the circle.

“My reply, like the charges, will be under two heads,” he began. “In

the first place, I _am_ bent on destroying your organization.”

This declaration was received in courteous silence, and the thought

came into Hall’s mind that as philosophers and madmen they were

certainly consistent. Emotion of every sort was absent from their

faces. They waited at scholarly attention for the rest of his

discourse. Even Lucoville’s flash of anger had been momentary, and he

now sat as composed as the rest.

“Why I am bent on destroying your organization is too big a subject

to open at this moment,” Hall continued. “I may say, in passing, that

it is I who am responsible for your Chief’s changed conduct. When I

discovered what an extreme ethicist he was, and each of the rest of

you, I gave him fifty thousand dollars to accept a commission against

himself. I furnished him with a sanction, ethical, of course, and the

execution of the commission he turned over to Mr. Haas in my presence.

Am I right, Mr. Haas?”

“You are.”

“And in my presence, the Chief informed you of my secretaryship. Am I

right?”

“You are.”

“Now I come to the second head. Why did the Chief trust me with the

headquarters management of the Bureau? The answer is simply and

directly to the point. He knew that I was at least halfway as ethically

mad as the rest of you. He knew that it was impossible for me to break

my word. This I have proved by my subsequent actions. I have done my

best to fulfill the office of acting secretary. I have forwarded all

telegrams, general calls, and orders. I have granted all requests

for funds. I shall continue to do as I have agreed, though I hold in

detestation and horror, ethically, all that you stand for. I am doing

what I believe to be right. Am I right?”

The pause that followed was very slight. Lucoville arose, walked over

to him, and gravely extended his hand. The others did the same. Then

Starkington preferred a request that adequate provision be made from

the funds of the Bureau for the support of Dempsey’s widow and of

Harrison’s widow and children. There was little discussion, and when

the sums were decided upon, Hall wrote the checks and turned them over

to Murgweather to be forwarded.

The question next taken up was that of the crisis and of how best to

cope with the recreant Chief. In this Hall took no part, so that, lying

back in his chair, he was able to observe and study these curious

madmen. There were seven of them, and, with the exceptions of Haas and

Lucoville, they had all the appearance of middle-aged, middle-class,

scholarly gentlemen. He could not bring himself to realize that they

were cold-blooded murderers, assassins for hire. And by the same token,

it was incredible that they who were so calm should be the survivors of

the deadly war that was being waged against them. Half of their number

were already dead. Hanover was the sole survivor of Boston, Haas of New

York, Starkington of Chicago, and their genial and bewhiskered host,

Murgweather, of St. Louis.

“I enjoyed your last book,” Hall’s host leaned over and whispered to

him in an interval. “Your argument for organization by industry as

against organization by craft was unimpeachable. But to my notion, your

exposition of the law of diminishing returns was rather lame. I have a

bone to pick with you there.”

And this man was an assassin!--all these men were assassins! Hall could

believe only by accepting them as lunatics. And going into town on the

electric car after the meeting, he sat and talked with Haas, and was

astounded to find him an ex-professor of Greek and Hebrew. Lucoville

proved to be an expert in Oriental research. Hanover, he learned, had

once been headmaster of one of the most select New England academies,

while Starkington turned out to be an ex-newspaper editor of no mean

reputation.

“But why have you, for instance, gone in for this mode of life?” Hall

asked.

They were sitting on the outside of the car, which had arrived in the

hotel district. The theatres were just letting out, and the sidewalks

were crowded.

“Because it is right,” Haas answered, “and because it is a better means

of livelihood than Greek and Hebrew. If I had my life all over again--”

But Hall was never to hear the end of that sentence. The car was

stopped at a crossing for a moment, and Haas was suddenly electrified

by something he had seen. With a flash of eye, and without a word or

motion of farewell, he sprang from the car and was lost to view in the

moving crowd.

Next morning Hall understood. In the paper was a sensational account

of a mysterious attempt at murder. Haas was lying at the receiving

hospital with a perforated lung. The doctors’ examination showed that

he owed his life to an abnormal, misplaced heart. Had his heart been

where it ought to have been, said the report, the bullet or missile

would have passed through it. But this did not constitute the mystery.

No one had heard the shot fired. Haas had suddenly slumped in the midst

of a thick crowd. A woman, pressed against him in the jam, testified

that at the moment before he fell she heard a faint, though sharp,

metallic click. A man, in front of him, thought he had heard the click

but was not sure.

“The police are mystified,” the newspaper said. “The victim, a stranger

in the city, is equally mystified. He claims to know of no person or

persons who might be liable to seek his life. Nor does he remember

having heard the click. He was aware only of a violent impact as the

strange missile entered. Sergeant of Detectives O’Connell believes

the weapon to have been an air-rifle, but this is denied by Chief of

Detectives Randall, who claims to know air-rifles, and who denies that

such a weapon could be utilized unseen in a dense crowd.”

“It was the Chief without doubt,” Murgweather was assuring Hall a few

minutes later. “He is still in town. Will you please inform Denver,

San Francisco, and New Orleans of the event? The weapon is the Chief’s

own invention. Several times he has loaned it to Harrison, who always

returned it after using. The compressed-air chamber is strapped on the

body under the arm or wherever is most convenient. The discharging

mechanism is no larger than a toy pistol, and can be readily concealed

in the hand. We must be very careful from now on.”

“I am in no danger,” Hall answered. “I am only Temporary Secretary, and

am not a member.”

“I am glad that Haas will recover,” Murgweather said. “He is a very

estimable man and a scholar. I have the keenest appreciation of his

intellect, though he is prone to be too serious at times, and, I fear

me, finds a certain pleasure in taking human life.”

“Don’t you?” Hall asked quickly.

“No, and no other one of us, with the exception of Haas. He has the

temperament for it. Believe me, Mr. Hall, though I have faithfully

performed my tasks for the Bureau, and despite my ethical convictions

as to the righteousness of the acts, I never put through an execution

without qualms of the flesh. I know it is foolish, but I cannot

overcome it. Why, I was positively nauseated by my first affair. I have

written a monograph upon the subject, not for publication, of course,

but it is a very interesting field of study. If you care to, I shall be

glad for you to come out to the house some evening and glance over what

I have written.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

“It is a curious problem,” Murgweather continued. “The sacredness of

human life is a social concept. The primitive natural man never had

any qualms about killing his fellow man. Theoretically, I should have

none. Yet I do have. The question is: how do they arise? Has the long

evolution to civilization impressed this concept into the cerebral

cells of the race? Or is it due to my training in childhood and

adolescence, before I became an emancipated thinker? Or may it not be

due to both causes? It is very curious.”

“I am sure it is,” Hall answered dryly. “But what are you going to do

about the Chief?”

“Kill him. It is all we can do, and we certainly must assert our right

to live. The situation is a new one to us, however. Hitherto, the men

we destroyed were unaware of their danger. Also, they never pursued

us. But the Chief does know our intention, and, furthermore, he is

destroying us. We have never been hunted before. He has certainly been

more fortunate than we. But I must be going. I agreed to meet Hanover

at quarter past.”

“But aren’t you afraid?” Hall asked.

“Of what?”

“Of the Chief killing you?”

“No; it won’t matter much. You see, I am well insured, and in my own

experience I have exploded one generally accepted notion, namely,

that the man who has taken many lives is, by those very acts, made

more afraid himself to die. This is not true. I have demonstrated it.

The more I have administered death to others--eighteen times, by my

count--the easier death has seemed to me. Those very qualms I spoke

of are the qualms of life. They belong to life, not to death. I have

written a few detached thoughts on the subject. If you care to glance

at them....”

“Yes, indeed,” Hall assured him.

“This evening, then. Say at eleven. If I am detained by this affair,

ask to be shown into my study. I’ll lay the manuscript, and that of the

monograph, too, on the reading table for you. I’d prefer to read them

aloud and discuss them with you, but if I can’t be there, jot down any

notes of criticism that may come to you.”

_Chapter X_

“I know there is much you are concealing from me, and I cannot

understand why. Surely, you are not unwilling to aid me in saving Uncle

Sergius?”

Grunya’s last sentence was uttered pleadingly, and her eyes were warm

with the golden glow that for this once failed to reach Hall’s heart.

“Uncle Sergius doesn’t seem to need much saving,” he muttered grimly.

“Now just what do you mean?” she cried, quickly suspicious.

“Nothing, nothing, I assure you, except merely that he has escaped so

far.”

“But how do you know he has escaped?” she insisted. “May he not be

dead? He has not been heard of since he left Chicago. How do you know

but what those brutes have killed him?”

“He has been seen here in St. Louis--”

“There!” she interrupted excitedly. “I knew you were keeping things

from me! Now, honestly, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Hall confessed. “But by your uncle’s own instructions. Believe

me, you cannot be of the least assistance to him. You can’t even find

him. It would be wise for you to return to New York.”

For an hour longer she catechized him and he wasted advice on her, and

they parted in mutual irritation.

Promptly at eleven, Hall rang the bell at Murgweather’s bungalow.

A little sleepy-eyed maidservant of fourteen or fifteen, apparently

aroused from bed, admitted and led him to Murgweather’s study.

“He’s in there,” she said, pushing open the door and leaving him.

At the further side of the room, seated at the table, partly in the

light of a reading lamp, but more in shadow, was Murgweather. His

crossed arms rested on the table, and on them rested his bowed head.

Evidently asleep, Hall concluded, as he crossed over. He spoke to him,

then touched him on the shoulder, but there was no response. He felt

the genial assassin’s hand and found it cold. A stain upon the floor,

and a perforation of the reading jacket beneath the shoulder, told the

story. Murgweather’s heart had been in the right place. An open window,

directly behind, showed how the deed had been accomplished.

Hall drew the heap of manuscript from beneath the dead man’s arms. He

had been killed as he pored over what he had written. “Some Casual

Thoughts on Death,” Hall read the title, then searched on till he

found the monograph, “A Tentative Explanation of Certain Curious

Psychological Traits.”

It would never do for Murgweather’s family if such damning evidence

were found with the corpse, was Hall’s decision. He burned them in the

fireplace, turned down the lamp, and crept softly out of the house.

Early the following morning, the news was broken to him in his room by

Starkington, but it was not until afternoon that the papers published

the account. Hall was frightened. The little maidservant had been

interviewed, and that she had used her sleepy eyes to some purpose was

shown by the excellence of the description she gave of the visitor she

had admitted at eleven o’clock the previous night. The detail she gave

was almost photographic. Hall got up abruptly and looked at himself

in the glass. There was no mistaking it. The reflection he saw was

precisely that of the man for whom the police were searching. Even to

the scarf-pin, he was that man.

He made a hurried rummage of his luggage and arrayed himself as

dissimilarly as possible. Then, dodging into a taxi from the side

entrance of the hotel, he made the round of the shops, from headgear to

footgear purchasing a new outfit.

Back at the hotel, he found he had just time to catch a westbound

train. Fortunately, he was able to get Grunya to the telephone, so as

to tell her of his departure. Also, he took the liberty of guessing

that Dragomiloff’s next appearance would be in Denver, and he advised

her to follow on.

Once on the train and out of the city, he breathed more easily, and was

able more calmly to consider the situation. He, too, he decided, was on

the adventure path, and a madly tangled path it was. Starting out with

the intention of running down the Assassination Bureau and destroying

it, he had fallen in love with the daughter of its organizer, become

Temporary Secretary of the Bureau, and was now being sought by the

police for the murder of one of the members who had been killed by the

Chief of the Bureau. “No more practical sociology for me,” he said to

himself. “When I get out of this I shall confine myself to theory.

Closet sociology from now on.”

At the depot in Denver, he was greeted sadly by Harkins, the head of

the local branch. Not until they were in a machine and whirling uptown

did the cause of Harkins’s sadness come out.

“Why didn’t you warn us?” he said reproachfully. “You let him give you

the slip, and we were so certain that his account would be settled in

St. Louis that we were not prepared.”

“He has arrived, then?”

“Arrived? Gracious! The first we knew, two of us were done

for--Bostwick, who was like a brother to me, and Calkins, of San

Francisco. And now Harding, the other San Francisco man, has dropped

from sight. It is terrible.” He paused and shuddered. “I parted from

Bostwick not more than fifteen minutes before it happened. He was so

bright and cheerful. And now his little love-saturated home! His dear

wife is inconsolable.”

Tears ran down Harkins’s cheeks, so blinding him that he slowed the

pace of the machine. Hall was curious. Here was a new type of madman, a

sentimental assassin.

“But why should it be terrible?” he queried. “You have dealt death to

others. It is the same phenomenon in all cases.”

“But this is different. He was my friend, my comrade.”

“Possibly others that you have killed had friends and comrades.”

“But if you could have seen him in his little home,” Harkins maundered

on. “He was a model husband and father. He was a good man, an

excellently good man, a saint, so considerate that he would not harm a

fly.”

“But what happened to him was only what he had made happen to others,”

Hall objected.

“No, no; it is different!” the other cried passionately. “If you had

only known him. To know him was to love him. Everybody loved him.”

“Undoubtedly his victims as well?”

“Aye, had they had the opportunity they could not have helped loving

him,” Harkins proclaimed vehemently. “If you only knew the good he has

done and was continually doing. His four-footed friends loved him. The

very flowers loved him. He was president of the Humane Society. He was

the strongest worker among the anti-vivisectionists. He was in himself

a whole society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.”

“Bostwick ... Charles N. Bostwick,” Hall murmured. “Yes, I remember. I

have noticed some of his magazine articles.”

“Who does not know him?” Harkins broke in ecstatically, and broke off

long enough to blow his nose. “He was a great power for good, a great

power for good. I would gladly change places with him right now, to

have him back in the world.”

Nevertheless, outside of his love for Bostwick, Hall found Harkins

to be a keen, intelligent man. He stopped the machine at a telegraph

office.

“I told them to hold any messages for me this morning,” he explained as

he got out.

In a minute he was back, and together, with the aid of the cipher, they

translated the telegram he had received. It was from Harding, and had

been sent from Ogden.

“Westbound,” it ran. “Chief on board. Am waiting opportunity. Shall

succeed.”

“He won’t,” Hall volunteered. “The Chief will get Harding.”

“Harding is a strong and alert man,” Harkins affirmed.

“I tell you, you fellows don’t realize what you’re up against.”

“We realize that the life of the organization is at stake, and that we

must deal with a recreant Chief.”

“If you thoroughly realized the situation you’d head for tall timber

and climb a tree and let the organization go smash.”

“But that would be wrong,” Harkins protested gravely.

Hall threw up his hands in despair.

“To make it doubly sure,” the other continued, “I shall immediately

tell the comrades at St. Louis to come on. If Harding fails--”

“Which he will.”

“We’ll proceed to San Francisco. In the meantime--”

“In the meantime, you’ll please run me back to the depot,” Hall

interrupted, glancing at his watch. “There’s a westbound train due.

I’ll meet you in San Francisco, at the St. Francis Hotel, if you don’t

meet the Chief first. If you do meet him first ... well, it’s goodbye

now and for good.”

Before the train started, Hall had time to write a note to Grunya,

which Harkins was to deliver to her on the train. The note informed her

of her uncle’s continued westward flight and advised her, when she got

to San Francisco, to register at the Fairmount Hotel.

_Chapter XI_

At Reno, Nevada, a dispatch was delivered to Hall. It was from the

sentimental Denver assassin.

“Man ground to pieces at Winnemucca. Must be Chief. Return at once.

Members all arriving Denver. We must reorganize.”

But Hall grinned and remained on his westbound train. The reply he

wired was:

“Better identify. Did you deliver letter to lady?”

Three days later, at the St. Francis Hotel, Hall heard again from the

manager of the Denver Bureau. This wire was from Winnemucca, Nevada.

“My mistake. It was Harding. Chief surely heading for San

Francisco. Inform local branch. Am following. Delivered letter.

Lady remained on train.”

But no trace of Grunya could Hall find in San Francisco. Nor could

Breen and Alsworthy, the two local members, help him. Hall even went

over to Oakland and ferreted out the sleeping car she had arrived in

and the Negro porter of the car. She had come to San Francisco and

promptly disappeared.

The assassins began to string in--Hanover of Boston, Haas, the hungry

one with the misplaced heart, Starkington of Chicago, Lucoville of New

Orleans, John Gray of New Orleans, and Harkins of Denver. With the two

San Francisco members there was a total of eight. They were all that

survived in the United States. As was well known to them, Hall did not

count. While Temporary Secretary of the organization, disbursing its

funds and transmitting its telegrams, he was not one of them and his

life was not threatened by the mad leader.

What convinced Hall that they were all madmen was the uniform kindness

with which they treated him and the confidence they reposed in him.

They knew him to be the original cause of their troubles; they knew he

was bent upon the destruction of the Assassination Bureau and that he

had furnished the fifty thousand dollars for the death of their Chief;

and yet they gave Hall credit for what he considered the rightness

of his conduct and for the particular streak of ethical madness that

simmered somewhere in his make-up and compelled him to play fairly with

them. He did not betray them. He handled their funds honestly; and he

performed satisfactorily all the duties of Temporary Secretary.

With the exception of Haas, who, despite his achievements in Greek

and Hebrew, was too kin to the tiger in lust to kill, Hall could not

help but like these learned lunatics who had made a fetish of ethics

and who took the lives of fellow humans with the same coolness and

directness of purpose with which they solved problems in mathematics,

made translations of hieroglyphics, or carried through chemical

analyses in the test-tubes of their laboratories. John Gray he liked

most of all. A quiet Englishman, in appearance and carriage a country

squire, John Gray entertained radical ideas concerning the function

of the drama. During the weeks of waiting, when there was no sign of

Dragomiloff or Grunya, Gray and Hall frequented the theatres together,

and to Hall their friendship proved a liberal education. During this

period, Lucoville became immersed in basketry, devoting himself in

particular to the recurrent triple-fish design so common in the baskets

of the Ukiah Indians. Harkins painted water colors, after the Japanese

school, of leaves, mosses, grasses, and ferns. Breen, a bacteriologist,

continued his search of years for the parasite of the corn-worm.

Alsworthy’s hobby was wireless telephony, and he and Breen divided an

attic laboratory between them. And Hanover, an immediate patron of the

city’s libraries, surrounded himself with scientific books and worked

at the fourteenth chapter of a ponderous tome which he had entitled

_Physical Compulsions of the Aesthetics of Color_. He put Hall to sleep

one warm afternoon by reading to him the first and thirteenth chapters.

The two months of inaction would not have occurred, and the assassins

would have gone back to their home cities, had it not been for the fact

that they were baited to remain by a weekly message from Dragomiloff.

Regularly, each Saturday night, Alsworthy was called up by telephone,

and over the wire heard the unmistakable toneless and colorless

voice of the Chief. He always reiterated the one suggestion that the

surviving members of the Assassination Bureau disband the organization.

Hall, present at one of their councils, seconded the proposition. The

hearing they accorded him was out of courtesy only, for he was not one

of them; and he stood alone in the opinion he expressed.

As they saw it, there was no possible way by which they could break

their oaths. The rules of the Bureau had never been broken. Even

Dragomiloff had not broken them. In strict accord with the rules he

had accepted Hall’s fee of fifty thousand dollars, judged himself and

his acts as socially hurtful, passed sentence on himself, and selected

Haas to execute the sentence. Who were they, they demanded, that they

should behave less rightly than their Chief? To disband an organization

which they believed socially justifiable would be a monstrous wrong. As

Lucoville said, “It would stultify all morality and place us on the

level of the beasts. Are we beasts?”

And “No! No! No!” had been the passionate cries of the members.

“Madmen yourselves,” Hall called them. “As mad as your Chief is mad.”

“All moralists have been considered mad,” Breen retorted. “Or, to be

precise, have been considered mad by the common ruck of their times.

No moralist, unworthy of contempt, can act contrary to his belief.

All crucifixions and martyrdoms have been gladly accepted by the true

moralists. It was the only way to give power to their teaching. Faith!

That’s it! And, as the slang of the day goes, they delivered the goods.

They had faith in the right they envisioned. What is the life of man

compared with the living truth of the thought of man? A vain thing is

precept without example. Are we preceptors who dare not be exemplars?”

“No! No! No!” had been the chorus of approbation.

“We dare not, as true thinkers and right-livers, by thought, much less

by deed, negate the high principles we expound,” said Harkins.

“Nor can we otherwise climb upwards towards the light,” Hanover added.

“We are not madmen,” Alsworthy cried. “We are men who see clearly. We

are high priests at the altar of right conduct. As well call our good

friend, Winter Hall, a madman. If truth be mad, and we are touched

by it, is not Winter Hall likewise touched? He has called us ethical

lunatics. What else, then, has his conduct been but ethical lunacy?

Why has he not denounced us to the police? Why does he, holding our

views abhorrent, continue to act as our Secretary? He is not even bound

by solemn contracts as we are. He merely bowed his head and consented

to do the several things requested of him by our recreant Chief. He

belongs to both sides in the present controversy; the Chief trusts

him; we trust him; and he betrays neither one side nor the other. We

know and like him. I, for one, find but two things distasteful in

him: first, his sociology, and, second, his desire to destroy our

organization. But when it comes to ethics he is as like us as a pea in

a pod is to its fellows.”

“I, too, am touched,” Hall murmured sadly. “I admit it. I confess it.

You are such likable lunatics, and I am so weak, or strong, or foolish,

or wise--I don’t know what--that I cannot break my given word. All the

same, I wish I could bring you fellows to my way of thinking, as I

brought the Chief to my way of thinking.”

“Oh, but did you?” Lucoville cried. “Why then did the Chief not retire

from the organization?”

“Because he had accepted the fee I paid for his life,” Hall answered.

“And for the same reasons precisely are we plighted to take his life,”

Lucoville drove the point home. “Are we less moral than our Chief?

By our compacts, when the Chief accepted the fee we were bound to

carry into execution his agreement with you. It mattered not what

that agreement might be. It chanced to be the Chief’s own death.” He

shrugged his shoulders. “What would you? The Chief must die, else we

are not exemplars of what we believe to be right.”

“There you go, always harking back to morality,” Hall complained.

“And why not?” Lucoville concluded grandly. “The world is founded

on morality. Without morality the world would perish. There is a

righteousness in the elements themselves. Destroy morality and you

would destroy gravitation. The very rocks would fly apart. The whole

sidereal system would fume into the unthinkableness of chaos.”

_Chapter XII_

One evening, at the Poodle Dog Café, Hall waited vainly for John Gray

to join him at dinner. The theatre, as usual, had been planned for

afterwards. But John Gray did not come, and by half past eight Hall

returned to the St. Francis Hotel, under his arm a bundle of current

magazines, intent on early to bed. There was something familiar about

the walk of the woman who preceded him towards the elevator, and, with

a quick intake of breath, he hurried after.

“Grunya,” he said softly, as the elevator started.

In one instant she gave him a startled glance from trouble-burdened

eyes, and the next instant she had caught his hand between both of hers

and was clinging to it as if for strength.

“Oh, Winter,” she breathed. “Is it you? That is why I came to the St.

Francis. I thought I might find you. I need you so. Uncle Sergius is

mad, quite mad. He ordered me to pack up for a long journey. We sail

tomorrow. He compelled me to leave the house and to come to a downtown

hotel, promising to join me later, or to join me on the steamer

tomorrow morning. I engaged rooms for him. But something is going to

happen. He has some terrible plan in mind, I know. He--”

“What floor, sir?” the elevator operator interrupted.

“Go down again,” Hall ordered, for there was no one else in the car.

“Wait,” he cautioned. “We will go to the Palm Room and talk.”

“No, no,” she cried. “Let us get out on the street. I want to walk.

I want fresh air. I want to be able to think. Do you think I am mad,

Winter? Look at me. Do I look it?”

“Hush,” he commanded, pressing her arm. “Wait. We will talk it over.

Wait.”

It was patent that she was in a state of high excitement, and her

effort to control herself on the down-trip of the elevator was

successful but pitiful.

“Why didn’t you communicate with me?” he asked, when they had gained

the sidewalk and were walking to the corner of Powell, where he

intended directing their course across Union Square. “What became of

you when you reached San Francisco? You received my message at Denver.

Why didn’t you come to the St. Francis?”

“I haven’t time to tell you,” she hurried on. “My head is bursting. I

don’t know what to believe. It seems all a dream. Such things are not

possible. Uncle’s mind is deranged. Sometimes I am absolutely sure

there is no such things as the Assassination Bureau. It is an imagining

of Uncle Sergius. You, too, have imagined it. This is the twentieth

century. Such an awful thing cannot be. I ... I sometimes wonder if

I have had typhoid fever, or if I am not even now in the delirium of

fever, with nurses and doctors around me, raving all this nightmare

myself. Tell me, tell me, are you, too, a sprite of fantasy--a vision

of a disease-stricken brain?”

“No,” he said gravely and slowly. “You are awake and well. You are

yourself. You are now crossing Powell Street with me. The pavement is

slippery. Do you not feel it underfoot? See those tire chains on that

motorcar. Your arm is in mine. This is a real fog drifting across

from the Pacific. Those are real people on yonder benches. You see

this beggar, asking me for money. He is real. See, I give him a real

half-dollar. He will most likely spend it on real whiskey. I smelled

his breath. Did you? It was real, I assure you, very real. And we are

real. Please grasp that. Now, what is your trouble? Tell me all.”

“Is there truly an organization of assassins?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“How do you know? Is it not mere conjecture? May you not be inoculated

with uncle’s madness?”

Hall shook his head sadly. “I wish I were. Unfortunately, I know

otherwise.”

“How do you know?” she cried, pressing the fingers of her free hand

wildly to her temple.

“Because I am Temporary Secretary of the Assassination Bureau.”

She recoiled from him, half withdrawing her arm from his and being

restrained only by a reassuring pressure on his part.

“You are one of the band of murderers that is trying to kill Uncle

Sergius!”

“No; I am not one of the band. I merely have charge of its funds. Has

you--er--your Uncle Sergius told you anything about the--er--the band?”

“Oh, endless ravings. He is so deranged that he believes that he

organized it.”

“He did,” Hall said firmly. “He is crazy, there is no doubt of that;

but nevertheless he made the Assassination Bureau and directed it.”

Again she recoiled and strove to withdraw her arm.

“And will you next admit that it is you who paid the Bureau fifty

thousand dollars in advance for his death?” she demanded.

“It is true. I admit it.”

“How could you?” she moaned.

“Listen, Grunya, dear,” he begged. “You have not heard all. You do

not understand. At the time I paid the fee I did not know he was your

father--”

He broke off abruptly, appalled at the slip he had made.

“Yes,” she said, with growing calmness, “he told me he was my father,

too. I took it for so much raving. Go on.”

“Well, then, I did not know he was your father; nor did I know he was

insane. Afterwards, when I learned, I pleaded with him. But he is mad.

So are they all, all mad. And he is up to some new madness right now.

You dread that something is going to happen. Tell me what are your

suspicions. We may be able to prevent it.”

“Listen!” She pressed close to him and spoke quickly in a low,

controlled voice. “There is much explanation needed from both of us

and to both of us. But first to the danger. When I arrived in San

Francisco, why I do not know save that I had a presentiment, I went

first to the morgue, then I made the round of the hospitals. And I

found him, in the German Hospital, with two severe knife wounds. He

told me he had received them from one of the assassins...”

“A man named Harding,” Hall interrupted and guessed. “It happened up on

the Nevada desert, near Winnemucca, on a railroad train.”

“Yes, yes; that is the name. That is what he said.”

“You see how everything dovetails,” Hall urged. “There may be a great

deal of madness in it, but the madness even is real, and you and I, at

any rate, are sane.”

“Yes, but let me hurry on.” She pressed his arm with renewed

confidence. “Oh, we have so much to tell each other. Uncle swears by

you. But that is not what I want to say. I rented a furnished house,

on the tip-top of Rincon Hill, and as soon as the doctors permitted, I

moved Uncle Sergius to it. We’ve been keeping house there for the last

few weeks. Uncle is entirely recovered--or Father, rather. He _is_ my

father. I believe that now, for it seems I must believe everything.

And I shall believe ... unless I wake up and find it all a nightmare.

Now Un--Father has been tinkering about the house the last few days.

Today, with everything packed for our voyage to Honolulu, he sent the

luggage aboard the steamer, and sent me to a hotel. Now I know nothing

about explosives, save glints and glimmerings from my reading; but

just the same I know he has mined the house. He has dug up the cellar.

He has opened the walls of the big living room and closed them again.

I know he has run wires behind the partitions, and I know that today

he was making things ready to run a wire from the house to a clump of

shrubbery in the grounds near the gateway. Possibly you may guess what

he plans to do.”

Hall was just remembering John Gray’s failure to keep the theatre

engagement.

“Something is to happen there tonight,” Grunya went on. “Uncle intends

to join me later tonight at the St. Francis, or tomorrow morning on the

steamer. In the meantime--”

But Hall, having reasoned his way to action, was urging her by the

arm, back out of the park to the corner where stood the waiting row of

taxicabs.

“In the meantime,” he told her, “we must rush to Rincon Hill. He is

going to kill them. We must prevent it.”

“If only he isn’t killed,” she murmured. “The cowards! The cowards!”

“Pardon me, dear, but they are not cowards. They are brave men, and

they are the most likable chaps, if a bit peculiar, under the sun. To

know them is to love them. There has been too much killing already.”

“They want to kill my father.”

“And he wants to kill them,” Hall retorted. “Don’t forget that. And

it is by his order. He is as mad as a hatter, and they are precisely

as mad as so many more hatters. Come! Quick, please! Quick! They are

assembling there now in the mined house. We may save them--or him, who

knows?”

“Rincon Hill--time is money--you know what that means,” he said to the

taxi driver, as he helped Grunya in. “Come on, now! Burn up that juice!

Rip up the pavement, anything you want, as long as you get us there!”

Rincon Hill, once the aristocratic residence district of San Francisco,

lifts its head of decayed gentility from out of the muck and ruck of

the great labor ghetto that spreads away south of Market Street. At

the foot of the hill, Hall paid off the cab, and he and Grunya began

the easy climb. Though it was still early in the evening, no more than

half past nine, few persons were afoot. Chancing to glance back, Hall

saw a familiar form pass across the circle of light shed by a street

lamp. He drew Grunya into the house shadows of the side street and

waited, and in a few minutes was rewarded by seeing Haas go by, walking

in his peculiar, effortless, cat-like way. They continued on, half a

block behind him, and when, at the crest of the hill, under the light

from the next street lamp, they saw him vault a low, old-fashioned iron

fence, Grunya nudged Hall’s arm significantly.

“That is the house, our house,” she whispered. “Watch him. Little he

dreams he is going to his death.”

“Little I dream he is either,” Hall whispered back skeptically. “In my

opinion Mr. Haas is a very difficult specimen to kill.”

“Uncle Sergius is very careful. I have never known him to blunder. He

has arranged everything, and when your Mr. Haas goes through that

front door--”

She broke off. Hall had gripped her arm savagely.

“He’s not going through that front door, Grunya. Watch him. He’s

prowling to the rear.”

“There is no rear,” she said. “The hill falls away in a bulkhead down

to the next back yard, forty feet below. He’ll prowl back to the front.

The garden is very small.”

“He’s up to something,” Hall muttered, as the dark form came in sight

again. “Ah ha! Mr. Haas! You’re the wily one! See, Grunya, he’s crawled

into that shrubbery by the gate. Is that where the wire was run?”

“Yes; it’s the only thick clump of shrubbery a man can hide in. Here

comes somebody. I wonder if it’s another of the assassins.”

Not waiting, Hall and Grunya walked on past the house to the next

corner. The man who had come from the other direction turned into

Dragomiloff’s house and walked up the steps to the door. They heard it,

after a momentary delay, open and shut.

Grunya insisted on accompanying Hall. It was her house, she said, and

she knew every inch of it. Besides, she still had the pass-key, and it

would not be necessary to ring.

The front hall was lighted, so that the house number showed plainly,

and they walked boldly past the bushes that concealed Haas, unlocked

the front door, and entered. Hall hung his hat on the rack and pulled

off his gloves. From the door to the right came a murmur of voices.

They paused outside to listen.

“Beauty _is_ a compulsion,” they heard one voice master the

conversation.

“That’s Hanover, the Boston associate,” Hall whispered.

“Beauty is absolute,” the voice went on. “Human life, all life, has

been bent to beauty. It is not a case of paradoxical adaptation.

Beauty was not bent to life. Beauty was in the universe when man was

not. Beauty will remain in the universe when man has vanished and again

is not. Beauty is--well, it is beauty, that is all, the first word and

the last, and it does not depend upon little maggoty men a-crawl in the

slime.”

“Metaphysics,” they could hear Lucoville sneer. “Pure illusory

metaphysics, my dear Hanover. When a man begins to label as absolute

the transient phenomena of an ephemeral evolution--”

“Metaphysician yourself,” they heard Hanover interrupt. “You would

contend that nothing exists save in consciousness, that when

consciousness is destroyed, beauty is destroyed, that the thing

itself, the vital principle to which developing life has been bent,

is destroyed. When we know, all of us, and you should know it, that

it is the principle only that persists. As Spencer has well said of

the eternal flux of force and matter, with its alternate rhythm of

evolution and dissolution, ‘ever the same in principle but never the

same in concrete result.’”

“New norms, new norms,” Lucoville blurted in. “New norms ever appearing

in successive and dissimilar evolutions.”

“The norm itself!” Hanover cried triumphantly. “Have you considered

that? You, yourself, have just asserted that the norm persists.

What then, is the norm? It is the eternal, the absolute, the

outside-of-consciousness, the father and the mother of consciousness.”

“A moment,” Lucoville cried excitedly.

“Bah!” Hanover went on with true scholarly dogmatism. “You

attempt to resurrect the old exploded, Berkeleyan idealism.

Metaphysics--generations behind the times. The modern school, as you

ought to know, insists that the thing exists of itself. Consciousness,

seeing and perceiving the thing, is a mere accident. ’Tis you, my dear

Lucoville, who are the metaphysician.”

There was a clapping of hands and rumble of approval.

“Hoist by your own petard,” they heard one mellow voice cry in an

unmistakable English accent.

“John Gray,” Hall whispered to Grunya. “If the theatre were not so

hopelessly commercialized, he would revolutionize the whole of it.”

“Logomachy,” they heard Lucoville begin his reply. “Word-mongering,

tricks of speech, a shuffling of words and ideas. If you chaps will

give me ten minutes, I’ll expound my position.”

“Behold!” Hall whispered. “Our amiable assassins, adorable

philosophers. Now, would you rather believe them madmen than cruel and

brutal murderers?”

Grunya shrugged her shoulders. “They may bend beauty any way they

please, but I cannot forget that they are bent on killing Uncle

Sergius--my father.”

“But don’t you see? They are obsessed by ideas. They take no count of

mere human life--not even of their own. They are in slavery to thought.

They live in a world of ideas.”

“At fifty thousand per,” she retorted.

It was his turn to shrug his shoulders.

“Come,” he said. “Let us enter. No, I’ll go first.”

He turned the door handle and went in, followed by Grunya. The

conversation stopped abruptly, and seven men, seated comfortably about

the room, stared at the two intruders.

“Look here, Hall,” Harkins said with evident irritation. “You were to

be kept out of this. And we kept you out. Yet here you are, and with

a--pardon me--a stranger.”

“And if it had depended on you fellows, I should have been kept out,”

Hall answered. “Why so secret?”

“It was the Chief’s orders. He invited us here. And since we obeyed his

instructions and didn’t let you in on it, our only conclusion is that

it is he who let you in.”

“No he didn’t,” Hall laughed. “And you might as well ask us to be

seated. This, gentlemen, is Miss Constantine. Miss Constantine, Mr.

Gray; Mr. Harkins; Mr. Lucoville; Mr. Breen; Mr. Alsworthy; Mr.

Starkington; and Mr. Hanover--with the one exception of Mr. Haas, the

surviving members of the Assassination Bureau.”

“This is broken faith!” Lucoville cried angrily. “Hall, I am

disappointed!”

“You do not understand, friend Lucoville. This is Miss Constantine’s

house. In the absence of her father you are her guests, all of you.”

“We were given to understand it was Dragomiloff’s house,” Starkington

said. “He told us so. We came separately, yet, since we all arrived

here we can only conclude that there was no mistake of street and

number.”

“It is the same thing,” Hall replied, with a quiet smile. “Miss

Constantine is Dragomiloff’s daughter.”

On the instant Grunya and Hall were surrounded by the others, and hands

were held out to her. Her own hand she put behind her, at the same time

taking a backward step.

“You want to kill my father,” she said to Lucoville. “It is impossible

that I should take your hand.”

“Here, this chair; be seated, dear lady,” Lucoville was saying,

assisted by Starkington and Gray in bringing the chair to her. “We are

highly honored--the daughter of our Chief--we did not know he had a

daughter--she is welcome--any daughter of our Chief is welcome--”

“But you want to kill him,” she continued her objection. “You are

murderers.”

“We are friends, believe me. We represent an amity that is higher and

deeper than life and death. Dear lady, human life is nothing--less than

a bagatelle. Life! Why, our lives are mere pawns in the game of social

evolution. We admire your father, we respect him; he is a great man. He

is--or, rather, he was--our Chief.”

“Yet you want to kill him,” she persisted.

“And by his orders. Be seated, please.” Lucoville succeeded in his

attentions, insofar as she sank down in the chair. “This friend of

yours, Mr. Hall,” he went on. “You do not refuse him as a friend.

You do not call him a murderer. Yet it was he who deposited the

fifty-thousand-dollar fee for your father’s life. You see, dear lady,

already he has half destroyed our organization. Yet we do not hold it

against him. He is our friend. We honor him because we know him to

be a man, an honest man, a man of his word, an ethicist of no mean

dimensions.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Miss Constantine!” Hanover broke in ecstatically.

“Amity that makes death cheap! The rule of right! The worship of right!

Does it not make one hope? Think of it! It proves that the future is

ours; that the future belongs to the right-thinking, right-acting man

and woman; that such fierce, feeble stirrings and animal yearnings of

the beastly clay, love of self and love of kindred flesh and blood,

vanish away as dawn mist before the sun of the higher righteousness!

Reason--and, mark me, _right reason_--triumphs! All the human world,

some day, will comport itself, not according to the flesh and the

abysmal mire, but according to high right reason!”

Grunya bowed her head and threw up her arms in admission of befuddled

despair.

“You can’t resist them, eh?” Hall exulted, bending over her.

“It is the chaos of super-thinking,” she said helplessly. “It is ethics

gone mad.”

“So I told you,” he answered. “They are all mad, as your father is

mad, as you and I are mad insofar as we are touched by their thinking.

And now what do you think of our lovable assassins?”

“Yes, what do you think of us?” Hanover beamed over the top of his

spectacles.

“All I can say,” she replied, “is that you don’t look like it--like

assassins, I mean. As for you, Mr. Lucoville, I will take your hand, I

will take the hands of all of you, if you will promise to give up this

attempt to kill my father.”

“You have a long way, Miss Constantine, to climb upwards to the light,”

Hanover chided regretfully.

“Kill? Kill?” Lucoville queried excitedly. “Why this fear of killing?

Death is nothing. Only the beasts, the creatures of the mire, fear

death. My dear lady, we are beyond death. We are full-statured

intelligences, knowing good and evil. It is no more difficult for us to

be killed than it is for us to kill. Killing--why, it occurs in every

slaughterhouse and meat-canning establishment in the land. It is so

common that it is almost vulgar.”

“Who has not swatted a mosquito?” Starkington shouted. “With one fell

swoop of a meat-nourished, death-nourished hand smashed to destruction

a most wonderful, sentient, and dazzling flying mechanism? If there be

tragedy in death--think of the mosquito, the squashed mosquito, the

airy fairy miracle of flight disrupted and crushed as no aviator has

ever been disrupted and crushed, not even MacDonald who fell fifteen

thousand feet. Have you ever studied the mosquito, Miss Constantine?

It will repay you. Why, the mosquito is just as wonderful, in the

phenomena of living matter, as man is wonderful.”

“But there _is_ a difference,” Gray put in.

“I was coming to that. And what is the difference? Swat the mosquito.”

He paused for emphasis. “Well, he is swatted, isn’t he? And that is

all. He is finished. The memory of him is not. But swat a man--by

entire generations swat man--and something is left. What is it that is

left? Not a peripatetic organism, not a hungry stomach, a bald head,

and a mouthful of aching teeth, but thoughts--royal, kingly thoughts.

That’s the difference. Thoughts! High thoughts! Right thoughts!

Reasoned righteousness!”

“Hold!” Hanover shouted, in his excitement springing to his feet and

waving his arms. “Swat--and I accept your word, Starkington, crude

though it is, but expressive. Swat--and I warn you, Starkington--swat

as much as the tiniest pigment cell of the diaphanous gauze of a

new-hatched mosquito’s wing, and the totality of the universe is jarred

from its central suns to the stars beyond the stars. Do not forget

there is a cosmic righteousness in that pigment cell and in the last

atom of the billion atoms that go to compose that pigment cell, and in

every one of the countless myriads of corpuscles that go to compose one

of those billion atoms.”

“Listen, gentlemen,” Grunya said. “What are you here for? I do not mean

in the universe, but here in this house. I accept all that Mr. Hanover

has so eloquently said of the pigment cell of the mosquito’s wing. It

is evidently not right to--to swat a mosquito. Then, how in the name

of sanity can you reconcile your presence here, bent as you are on a

red-handed murder, with the ethics you have just expounded?”

An uproar of reconciliation arose from every mouth.

“Hey! Shut up!” Hall bellowed at them, then turned to the girl and

commanded peremptorily, “Grunya, stop it. You’re getting touched. In

five minutes you’ll be as bad as they are. A truce to argument, you

fellows. Cut it out. Forget it. Let’s get down to business. Where is

the Chief, Miss Constantine’s father? You say he told you to come here.

Why have you come here? To kill him?”

Hanover wiped his forehead, collapsed from his passion of thought, and

nodded.

“That is our reasoned intention,” he said calmly. “Of course, the

presence of Miss Constantine is embarrassing. I fear we shall have to

ask her to withdraw.”

“You are a brute, sir,” she gravely assured the mild-mannered scholar.

“I shall remain right here. And you won’t kill my father. I tell you,

you won’t.”

“Why isn’t the Chief here, then?” Hall inquired.

“Because it is not yet time. He telephoned to us, talked with us

himself, and he said he would meet us here in this room at ten o’clock.

It is almost ten now.”

“Maybe he won’t come,” Hall suggested.

“He gave his word,” was the simple but quite convincing answer.

Hall looked at his watch. It marked a few seconds before ten. And ere

those seconds had ticked off, the door opened and Dragomiloff, blond

and colorless, clad in a gray traveling suit, stepped in, passing a

glance over the assemblage from silken eyes of the palest blue.

“Greetings, dear friends and brothers,” he said in his monotonously

even voice. “I see you are all here, with the exception of Haas. Where

is Haas?”

The assassins who could not lie stared at one another in awkward

confusion.

“Where is Haas?” Dragomiloff repeated.

“We--ah--we don’t know exactly, that is it, exactly,” Harkins began

haltingly.

“Well, I do, and exactly,” Dragomiloff chopped him short. “I watched

you arrive from the upstairs window. I recognized all of you. Haas

also arrived. He is now lying in the shrubbery inside the gate on the

right-hand side of the walk, and exactly four feet and four inches

from the lower hinge of the gate. I measured it the other day. Do you

think that was what I intended?”

“We did not care to anticipate your intentions, dear Chief,” Hanover

spoke up benignly, but with logical emphasis. “We debated your

invitation and your instructions carefully, and it was our unanimous

conclusion that we committed no breach of word or faith in assigning

Haas to his position outside. Do you remember your instructions?”

“Perfectly,” Dragomiloff assented. “Wait till I go over them to

myself.” For a half-minute of silence he reviewed his instructions,

then his face thawed into almost a beam of satisfaction. “You are

correct,” he announced. “You have committed no breach of right conduct.

And now, dear comrades, all our plans are destroyed by this intrusion

of my daughter and of the man who is your Temporary Secretary and who I

hope some day will be my son-in-law.”

“What was the aim of your plan?” Starkington asked quickly.

“To destroy you,” Dragomiloff laughed. “And the aim of your plan was?”

“To destroy you,” Starkington admitted. “And destroy you we will.

We regret Miss Constantine’s presence, as we likewise do Mr. Hall’s

presence. They came uninvited. They can, of course, withdraw.”

“I won’t!” Grunya cried out. “You cold-blooded, inhuman, mathematical

monsters! This is my father, and I may be abysmal mire, or anything

else you please, but I will not withdraw, and you shall not harm him.”

“You must meet me halfway in this,” Dragomiloff urged. “Let us consider

this once that we have failed on both sides. Let me propose a truce.”

“Very well,” Starkington conceded. “A truce for five minutes, during

which time no overt act may be attempted and no one may leave the

room. We should like to confer together over there by the piano. Is it

agreed?”

“Yes, certainly. But first you will please notice where I am standing.

My hand is resting against this particular book in this bookcase. I

shall not move until you have decided on what course you intend to

pursue.”

The assassins drew to the far end of the room and began talking in

whispers.

“Come,” Grunya whispered to her father. “You have but to step through

the door and escape.”

Dragomiloff smiled forgivingly. “You do not understand,” he said with

gentleness.

She clenched her hands passionately, crying, “You are as insane as

they.”

“But Grunya, love,” he pleaded, “is it not a beautiful insanity--if you

prefer the misnomer? Here thought rules and right rules. It would seem

to me the highest rationality and control. What distinguishes man from

the lower animals is control. Witness this scene. There stand seven

men intent on killing me. Here I stand intent on killing them. Yet, by

the miracle of the spoken word we agree to a truce. We trust. It is a

beautiful example of high moral inhibition.”

“Every hermit, on top of a pillar or living with the snakes in a cliff

cave, has been a beautiful example of such inhibition,” she came back

impatiently. “The inhibitions practiced in the asylums are often very

remarkable.”

But Dragomiloff refused to be drawn, and smiled and joked until the

assassins returned. As before, Starkington was the spokesman.

“We have decided,” he said, “that it is our duty to kill you, dear

Chief. There is still a minute to run. When it is gone we shall proceed

to our work. Also, in that interval, we again request our two unbidden

guests to withdraw.”

Grunya shook her head positively. “I am armed,” she threatened, drawing

a small automatic pistol and displaying her inexperience by not

pressing down the safety catch.

“It’s too bad,” Starkington apologized. “But we shall have to go on

with our work just the same.”

“If nothing unforeseen prevents?” Dragomiloff suggested.

Starkington glanced at his comrades, who nodded, then said, “Certainly,

unless nothing unforeseen--”

“And here is the unforeseen,” Dragomiloff interrupted quietly. “You see

my hands, my dear Starkington. They bear no weapons. Forbear a minute.

You see the book against which my left hand rests. Behind that book, at

the back of the case, is a push-button. One firm thrust in of the book

presses the button. The room is a magazine of dynamite. Need I explain

more? Draw aside that rug on which you are standing--that’s right. Now

carefully lift up that loose board. See the sticks lying side by side.

They’re all connected.”

“Most interesting,” Hanover murmured, peering down at the dynamite

through his spectacles. “Death so simply achieved! A violent chemical

reaction, I believe. Some day, when I can spare the time, I shall make

a study of explosives.”

And in that moment, Hall and Grunya realized that the

philosopher-assassins were truly not afraid of death. As they claimed

for themselves, they were not burdened by the flesh. Love of life did

not yearn through their mental processes. All they knew was the love of

thought.

“We did not guess this,” Gray assured Dragomiloff. “But we apprehended

what we did not guess. That is why we stationed Haas outside. You

could escape us, but not him.”

“Which reminds me, comrades,” Dragomiloff said. “I ran another wire

to the spot in the grounds where Haas is now lurking. Let us hope he

does not blunder upon my button I concealed there, else we’ll all go up

along with our theories. Suppose one of you goes and brings him in to

join us. And while we’re about it, let us agree to another truce. Under

the present circumstances, your hands are tied.”

“Seven lives for one,” said Harkins. “Mathematically it is repulsive.”

“It is poor economics,” Breen agreed.

“And suppose,” Dragomiloff continued, “we make the truce till one

o’clock and you all come and have supper with me.”

“If Haas agrees,” Alsworthy said. “I am going to get him now.”

Haas agreed and, like any party of friends, they left the house

together and caught an electric car for uptown.

_Chapter XIII_

In a private room at the Poodle Dog, the eight assassins and

Dragomiloff, Hall, and Grunya sat at table. And a merry, almost

convivial supper it was, despite the fact that Harkins and Hanover

were vegetarians, that Lucoville eschewed all cooked food and munched

bovinely at a great plate of lettuce, raw turnips, and carrots, and

that Alsworthy began, kept up, and finished with nuts, raisins, and

bananas. On the other hand, Breen, who looked a dyspeptic, orgied with

a thick, raw steak and shuddered at the suggestion of wine. Dragomiloff

and Haas drank thin native claret, while Hall, Gray, and Grunya shared

a pint of light Rhine wine. Starkington, however, began with two

Martini cocktails, and ever and again, throughout the meal, buried his

face in a huge stein of Würzburger.

The talk was outspoken, though the feeling displayed was comradely and

affectionate.

“We’d have got you,” Starkington told Dragomiloff, “if it hadn’t been

for the inopportune arrival of your daughter.”

“My dear Starkington,” Dragomiloff retorted. “It was she who saved you.

I’d have bagged the seven of you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Breen joined in. “As I understand, the wire led to

the bushes where Haas was hiding.”

“His being there was an accident, a mere accident,” Dragomiloff

answered lightly enough, yet unable to conceal that he was somewhat

crestfallen.

“Since when has the fortuitous been discarded from the factors of

evolution?” Hanover began learnedly.

“You’d never have touched it off, Chief,” Haas was saying at the same

time that Lucoville was demanding of Hanover, “Since when was the

fortuitous ever classed as a factor?”

“Possibly your disagreement is merely of definition,” Hall said

pacifically. “That asparagus is tinned, Hanover. Did you know that?”

Hanover forgot the argument, and sat back aghast. “And I never eat

tinned stuff of any sort! Are you sure, Hall? Are you sure?”

“Ask the waiter. He’ll tell you the same.”

“It’s all right, dear Haas,” Dragomiloff was saying. “The next time

I’ll surely touch it off, and you won’t be in the way. You’ll be at the

other end of the wire.”

“Oh, I cannot understand, I cannot understand,” Grunya cried. “It seems

a joke. It can’t be real. Here you are, all good friends, eating and

drinking together and affectionately telling how you intend killing one

another.” She turned to Hall. “Wake me up, Winter. This is a dream.”

“I wish it were.”

She turned to Dragomiloff. “Oh, Uncle Sergius, wake me up!”

“You are awake, Grunya, love.”

“Then if I’m awake,” she went on, firmly, almost angrily, “it is you

who are the somnambulists. Wake up! Oh, wake up! I wish an earthquake

would come, anything, if it would only rouse you. Father, you can do

it. Withdraw that order for your death which you yourself gave.”

“But don’t you see, he can’t,” Starkington told her across the corner

of the table.

Dragomiloff, at the other end of the table, shook his head. “You would

not have me break my word, Grunya?”

“I’m not afraid to break--anything!” Hall interrupted. “The order

started with me. I withdraw it. Return my fifty thousand, or spend

it on charity. I don’t care. The point is, I don’t want Dragomiloff

killed.”

“You forget yourself,” Haas reminded him. “You are merely a client of

the Bureau. And when you engaged the service of the Bureau, you agreed

to certain things. The Bureau likewise agreed to certain things. You

may wish to break your agreement, but it has passed beyond you. The

affair is in the hands of the Bureau, and the Bureau does not break

its agreements. It never has broken them and it never will. If there

be not absolute faith in the given word, if the given word be not as

unbreakable as the tie-ribs of earth, then there is no hope in life,

and creation crashes to chaos because of its intrinsic falsity. We deny

this falsity. We prove it by our acts that clinch the finality of the

given word. Am I right, comrades?”

Approval was unanimous, and Dragomiloff, half rising from his chair,

reached across and grasped the hand of Haas. For once Dragomiloff’s

undeviating, monotonous voice was touched with the emphasis of feeling

as he proclaimed proudly:

“The hope of the world! The higher race! The top of evolution! The

right-rulers and king-thinkers! The realization of all dreams and

aspirings; the slime crawled upward to the light; the touch and the

promise of Godhead come true!”

Hanover left his seat and threw his arms about the Chief in an ecstasy

of intellectual admiration and fellowship. Grunya and Hall looked at

each other despairingly.

“King-thinkers,” he murmured helplessly.

“The asylums are filled with king-thinkers,” was her angry comment.

“Logic!” he sneered.

“I, too, shall write a book,” she added. “It shall be entitled _The

Logic of Lunacy, or, Why Thinkers Go Mad_.”

“Never has our logic been better vindicated,” Starkington said to her,

as the jubilation of the king-thinkers eased down.

“You do violence with your logic,” Grunya flung back. “I will prove it

to you--”

“By logic?” Gray interpolated quickly and raised a general laugh, in

which Grunya could not help but join.

Hall lifted his hand solemnly for a hearing.

“We have yet to debate how many angels can dance on the point of a

needle.”

“Shame on you!” Lucoville cried. “That is antediluvian. We are

scholars, not scholastics--”

“And you can prove it,” Grunya stabbed across, “as easily as you can

the angels and the needle and everything else.”

“If ever I get out of this mix-up with you fellows,” Hall declared, “I

shall forswear logic. Never again!”

“A confession of intellectual fatigue,” Lucoville argued.

“Only he does not mean it,” Harkins put in. “He can’t help being

logical. It is his heritage--the heritage of man. It distinguishes man

from the lesser--”

“Hold!” Hanover broke in. “You forget that the universe is founded on

logic. Without logic the universe could not be. In every fibre of it

logic resides. There is logic in the molecule, in the atom, in the

electron. I have a monograph, here in my pocket, which I shall read to

you. I have called it ‘Electronic Logic.’ It--”

“Here is the waiter,” Hall interrupted wickedly. “He says of course

that the asparagus was tinned.”

Hanover ceased fumbling in his pocket in order to vent a tirade against

the waiter and the management of the Poodle Dog.

“That was not logical,” Hall smiled, when the waiter had left the room.

“And why not, pray?” Hanover asked, with a touch of asperity.

“Because it is not the season for fresh asparagus.”

Ere Hanover could recover from this, Breen began on him.

“You said earlier this evening, Hanover, that you were interested in

explosives. Let me show you the quintessence of universal logic--the

irrefragable logic of the elements, the logic of chemistry, the

logic of mechanics, and the logic of time, all indissolubly welded

together into one of the prettiest devices ever mortal mind conceived.

So thoroughly do I agree with you, that I shall now show you the

unreasoned logic of the stuff of the universe.”

“Why unreasoned?” Hanover queried faintly, shuddering at the uneaten

asparagus. “Do you think the electron incapable of reason?”

“I don’t know. I never saw an electron. But for the sake of the

argument, let us suppose it does reason. Anyway, as you’ll agree, it’s

the keenest logic, the absolutest and most unswervable logic you’ve

ever seen. Look at that.” Breen had gone to where his overcoat hung on

the wall and drawn out a flat oblong package. This, when unwrapped,

resembled a folding pocket camera of medium size. He held it up with

eyes sparkling with admiration. “By George, Hanover!” he exclaimed.

“I think you are right. Look at it!--The eloquent-voiced, the subduer

of jarring tongues and warring creeds, the ultimate arbiter. It

enunciates the final word. When it speaks, kings and emperors, grafters

and falsifiers, the Scribes and Pharisees and all wrong-thinkers remain

silent--forever remain silent.”

“Let it speak,” Haas grinned. “Maybe it will silence Hanover.”

The laughter died away as they saw Breen, the object poised in his

hand, visibly thinking. And in the silence they saw him achieve his

concept of action.

“Very well,” he said. “It shall speak.” He drew from his vest pocket an

ordinary-looking, gun-metal watch. “It is an alarm watch,” he went on,

“seventeen-jeweled movement, Swiss-Elgin works. Let me see. It is now

midnight. Our truce”--he bowed to Dragomiloff--“expires at one o’clock.

See, I set it for precisely one minute after one.” He pointed to an

opening in the camera-like object. “Behold this slot. It is specially

devised to receive this watch--mark me, I say, specially devised. I

insert the watch, thus. Did you hear that metallic click? That is

the automatic locking device. No power can now remove that watch. I

cannot. The decree has gone forth. It cannot be recalled. All this is

of my devising save for the voice itself. The voice is the voice of

Nakatodaka, the great Japanese who died last year.”

“A phonograph record,” Hanover complained. “I thought you said

something about explosives.”

“The voice of Nakatodaka is an explosive,” Breen expounded.

“Nakatodaka, if you will remember, was killed in his laboratory by his

own voice.”

“Formose!” Haas said, nodding his head. “I remember now.”

“So do I,” Hall told Grunya. “Nakatodaka was a great chemist.”

“But I understand the secret died with him,” Starkington said.

“So the world understood,” was Breen’s reply. “But the formula was

found by the Japanese government and stolen from the War Office by

a revolutionist.” His voice swelled with pride. “This is the first

Formose ever manufactured on American soil. I manufactured it.”

“Heavens!” Grunya cried. “And when it goes off it will blow us all up!”

Breen nodded with intense gratification.

“If you remain it will,” he said. “The people in this neighborhood will

think it an earthquake or another anarchist outrage.”

“Stop it!” she commanded.

“I can’t. That’s the beauty of it. As I told Hanover, it is the logic

of chemistry, the logic of mechanics, and the logic of time, all

indissolubly welded together. There is no power in the universe that

can now break that weld. Any attempt would merely precipitate the

explosion.”

Grunya caught Hall’s hand as she stared at him in her helplessness, but

Hanover, fluttering and hovering about the infernal machine, peering at

it delightedly through his spectacles, was off in another ecstasy.

“Wonderful! Wonderful! Breen, I congratulate you. We shall now be able

to settle the affairs of nations and put the world on a higher, nobler

basis. Hebrew is a diversion. This is an efficiency. I shall certainly

devote myself to the study of explosives ... Lucoville, you are

refuted. There _is_ morality in the elements, and reason, and logic.”

“You forget, my dear Hanover,” Lucoville replied, “that behind this

mechanism and chemistry and abstraction of time is the mind of man,

devising, controlling, utilizing--”

But he was interrupted by Hall, who had shoved his chair back and

sprung to his feet.

“You lunatics! You sit there like a lot of clams! Don’t you realize

that that damned thing is going to go off?”

“Not until one after one,” Hanover mildly assured him. “Besides, Breen

has not yet told us his intentions.”

“The mind of man behind and informing unconscious matter and blind

force,” Lucoville gibed.

Starkington leaned across to Hall and said in an undertone, “Transport

this scene to a stage setting with a Wall Street audience! There’d be a

panic.”

But Hall shook the interruption aside.

“Look here, Breen, just what is your intention? I, for one, and Miss

Constantine, are going to get out, now, at once.”

“There is plenty of time,” replied the custodian of Nakatodaka’s voice.

“I’ll tell you my intention. The truce expires at one. I am between

our dear Chief and the door. He can’t go though the walls. I guard the

door. The rest of you may depart. But I remain here with him. The blow

is sped. Nothing can stop it. One minute after the truce is up the last

commission accepted by the Bureau will have been accomplished. Pardon

me, dear Chief, one moment. I have told you that even I cannot stop the

process now at work in that mechanism. But I can expedite it. You see

my thumb, lightly resting in this depression? It just barely brushes a

button. One press of the thumb, and the machine immediately explodes.

Now, as an honorable and logical man and comrade, you can see that any

attempt of yours to get out of this door will blow all of us up, your

daughter and the Temporary Secretary as well. Therefore you will remain

in your seat. Hanover, the formula is safe. I shall remain here and

die with the Chief at one minute after one. You will find the formula

in the top drawer of the filing cabinet in my bedroom.”

“Do something!” Grunya entreated Hall. “You must do something.”

Hall, who had sat down, again stood up, moving the wineglass to one

side as he rested one hand on the table.

“Gentlemen.” He spoke in a quiet voice, but one which immediately

gained him the respectful attention of the others. “Until now, despite

my abhorrence of killing, I have felt bound to respect the ideals that

directed your actions. Now, however, I must question your motives.”

He turned to Breen, who was watching him carefully.

“Tell me,” Hall pursued, “do you feel that you, personally, merit

extinction? If you give your life in order to assassinate your Chief,

you are violating the tenet that any death at your hand is one

warranted by the crimes of the victim. Of what crimes are you so guilty

as to make this sentence--which you have passed upon yourself--a just

one?”

Breen smiled at this adroit argument. The others listened politely.

“But you see,” the bacteriologist explained happily, “we in the

Assassination Bureau recognize the possibility of our own death in the

execution of our assignments. It is a normal risk of our business.”

“Accidental death, yes, as a result of the unexpected,” was Hall’s

quiet reply. “Here, however, we are speaking of a planned death, and

that of an innocent person--yourself. This is in violation of your own

principles.”

There was a moment’s thoughtful silence.

“He’s quite right, Breen, you know,” Gray finally offered. He had been

listening to the verbal duel with puckered forehead. “I’m afraid that

your solution is scarcely acceptable.”

“Still,” Lucoville contributed, “consider this: Breen, by arranging an

innocent’s death, might be warranting his own death for dereliction of

principle.”

“A priori,” Haas snapped impatiently. “Specious. You are arguing in

circles. Until he dies, he is not guilty; if he is not guilty, he does

not warrant death.”

“Mad!” Grunya whispered. “They are all mad!”

She stared at the animated faces about the festive table with awe.

They had the intent gleam in their eyes of scholars at a seminar. No

one seemed in the slightest affected by the knowledge of the deadly

bomb ticking away the minutes. Breen had released his thumb from the

small button on the side of the weapon. His eyes followed each speaker

eagerly as they argued his proposal.

“There is one possible solution,” Harkins remarked slowly, leaning

forward to join the discussion. “Breen, by setting the bomb during the

period of a truce, was dishonoring a commitment. I do not say that

this, of itself, merits a punishment as severe as he contemplates, but

certainly he has been guilty of an action beyond the strict morality of

our organization....”

“True!” cried Breen, his eyes sparkling. “It is true, and that is the

answer! By speeding the blow during an armistice, I have committed a

sin. I find myself guilty and deserving of death.” His eyes flashed to

the wall-clock. “In exactly thirty minutes....”

But his inattention to Dragomiloff proved fatal. Swift as a striking

cobra, the strong hands of the ex-Chief of the Bureau sought and found

vital nerves in Breen’s neck. The death-touch of the Japanese was

immediately effective; even as the others watched in startled surprise

Breen’s hand relaxed on the small bomb and he slid lifeless to the

floor. In almost the same motion Dragomiloff had snatched up his coat

and was at the door.

“I shall see you on the boat, Grunya, my dear,” he murmured, and was

through and away before any of the others could move.

“After him!” cried Harkins, springing to his feet. But he found his way

barred by the tall form of John Gray.

“There is a truce!” Gray reminded him fiercely. “Breen broke it and has

paid dearly for his dereliction. We are still bound by our honor for

another twenty minutes.”

Starkington, who had watched the entire discussion dispassionately from

one end of the long table, lifted his head and spoke.

“The bomb,” he observed quietly. “Our polemics, I am afraid, will have

to be postponed. There are exactly--” he glanced at the wall-clock

“--eighteen minutes until it is scheduled to detonate.”

Haas leaned down curiously, picking the small box from Breen’s lax hand.

“There must be a way....”

“Breen assured us there was not,” Starkington responded dryly. “I

believe him. Breen never equivocated in a scientific statement.” He

came to his feet. “As head of the Chicago office I must assume command

of our greatly reduced forces. Harkins, you and Alsworthy must take

the bomb to the Bay as quickly as possible. We cannot leave it here to

explode and kill innocents.”

He waited as the two men took their coats and left, carrying the deadly

ticking container of Formose.

“Our respected ex-Chief made mention of a boat,” he continued evenly.

“I had assumed this was his motive in coming to San Francisco; his

statement merely confirmed it. Since we cannot stoop to extracting

the name of the steamer from his lovely daughter, we must make other

arrangements. Haas...?”

“There are but three steamers sailing in the morning with the tide,”

responded Haas almost mechanically, while Grunya marveled at the wealth

of information stored behind the bulging brow. “There are enough of us

remaining to easily check upon all of them.”

“Good,” Starkington agreed. “They are...?”

“The _Argosy_, at Oakland; the _Eastern Clipper_ at Jansen’s Wharf, and

the _Takku Maru_ at the Commercial Dock.”

“Fine. Then Lucoville, you will take the _Argosy_. Haas, the _Takku

Maru_ should be more suitable for you. Gray, the _Eastern Clipper_.”

The three men rose alertly, but Starkington waved them to their seats.

“There is time until the tide, gentlemen,” he remarked easily.

“Besides, there are still twelve minutes remaining of our armistice.”

He stared at the body of Breen lying twisted on the floor. “We must

make arrangements for the removal of our dear friend here, as well. An

unfortunate heart attack, I should say. Hanover, if you would handle

the telephone.... Thank you.”

His hand reached over to the table to find a wine-list.

“After which I would suggest a brandy, a bodied brandy. Possibly from

Spain. A fitting drink, taken at the end of a repast. We shall drink,

gentlemen, to the end of a most difficult assignment. And we shall

toast, gentlemen, the man who made the assignment possible.”

Hall swung about to object to this macabre humor at his expense, but

before he could speak, the even voice of Starkington continued quietly.

“We shall toast, gentlemen: Ivan Dragomiloff!”

_Chapter XIV_

Winter Hall, aided by a full purse, experienced little difficulty in

convincing the purser that space was available, even for a latecomer,

aboard the _Eastern Clipper_. He had stopped briefly at his hotel for a

bag, had left a short note to be delivered first thing in the morning,

and had met an anxious Grunya at the gangplank. While he was completing

his financial arrangements for passage, Grunya disappeared below to

inform her father of Hall’s presence aboard ship. An elfin smile lit

Dragomiloff’s features.

“Did you expect me to be angry, my dear?” he inquired. “Upset? Or even

surprised? While the thought of a trip alone with my newly discovered

daughter is enjoyable, it will be even more enjoyable to travel with

her when she is happy.”

“You have always made me happy, Uncle--I mean, Father,” she pouted, but

her eyes were twinkling.

Dragomiloff laughed.

“There comes a time, my dear, when a father is limited in the happiness

he can impart. And now, if you do not mind, I shall sleep. It has been

a tiring day.”

Grunya kissed him tenderly and was opening the door when memory struck.

“Father,” she exclaimed. “The Assassination Bureau! They intend to

investigate every ship sailing on the morning’s tide.”

“But of course,” he said gently. “It is the first thing they would do.”

He kissed her again and closed the door behind her.

She mounted to the upper deck and found Hall. Hand in hand they stood

at the rail, peering at the lights of the sleeping city. His hand

tightened on hers.

“Must it really be a year?” he asked sadly.

“There are only three months remaining,” she laughed. “Do not be

impatient.” Her laughter faded. “In truth, this is advice more suitable

to myself.”

“Grunya!”

“It is true,” she admitted. “Oh, Winter, I want to be married to you so

much!”

“Darling! The captain of the ship can marry us tomorrow!”

“No. I am as mad as all of you. I have given my word and I will not

change it.” She faced him soberly. “Until the year is up I will not

marry you. And should anything happen to my father before then....”

“Nothing will happen to him,” Hall assured her.

She looked at him steadily.

“Yet you will not promise me to prevent anything from happening.”

“My darling, I cannot.” Hall stared over the rail at the darkened

waters below. “These madmen--and I must include your father in that

category--will not allow anyone to interfere in their dangerous game.

And that’s what it is to them, you know. A game.”

“Which no one can win,” she agreed sadly, and then glanced at her

time-piece. “It is very late. I really must go to sleep. Shall I see

you in the morning?”

“You can scarcely avoid me on a small steamer,” he laughed, and bending

his head he kissed her fingers passionately.

* * * * *

Dragomiloff, finding his cabin warm, unbolted the porthole and swung

it wide. His stateroom fronted upon the dockside and a solid row of

inscrutable warehouses lit only by a row of small electric bulbs,

swinging faintly in the night breeze. The maneuver resulted in little

improvement; the night without was sultry and quiet.

He stood in the dark of his room, leaning against the brass rim of the

porthole, breathing deeply. His thoughts ranged over the past nine

months and the narrow escapes he had managed. He felt tired, mentally

and physically tired. Age, he thought. The one variable in life’s

equation beyond the power of the brain to control or to evaluate. At

least there were ten days ahead of freedom from stress; ten pleasant

days of sea-voyage in which to recuperate. Suddenly, as he stood there,

he heard a familiar voice rising from the shadows below.

“You are certain? Dragomiloff. It is very possible that he is a

passenger aboard.”

“Quite sure,” the purser replied. “There is no one of that name on the

ship. You may be certain that we would do everything in our power to

aid the Federal government.”

In the safety of his darkened stateroom, Dragomiloff grinned. His

weariness fled as, all senses alert, he listened intently. Gray was

clever to adopt the guise of a Federal man, but then Gray had always

been extremely worthy of his position in the Bureau.

“There is a chance this man is not using his real name,” Gray pursued.

“He is a smallish person, deceptively frail-looking--although, believe

me, he is not--and he is traveling with his daughter, a quite beautiful

young lady whose name is Grunya.”

“There is a gentleman traveling with his daughter....”

Dragomiloff’s smile deepened. In the blackness of his room his small,

strong fingers flexed and unflexed themselves preparatorily.

There was a moment’s silence on the dock below; then Gray spoke

thoughtfully.

“I should like to check further if you don’t mind. Could you give me

his cabin number?”

“Of course. One second, sir. Here it is--31--on the lower deck.” There

was a hesitant pause. “But if you should be wrong....”

“I shall apologize.” There was coldness in Gray’s voice. “The Federal

government has no interest in embarrassing innocent people. But still,

I have my duty to perform.”

The shadowy figures at the foot of the gangplank separated, the taller

one mounting the inclined stairway easily, brushing past the other.

“I can find it, thank you. There is no need for you to leave your post.”

“Certainly, sir. I hope....”

But Gray was beyond earshot. Stepping lightly to the deck of the ship

he strode quickly to a door leading to an inner passageway. Once inside

he immediately checked the numbers on the cabins facing him. The door

before him was marked 108; without hesitation he swung to the stairway

and descended. Here the numbers were of two digits. He smiled to

himself and crept along the silent corridor, marking each door.

Number 31 lay beyond a turn in the passage, set in a small alcove.

Flattening himself against the wall of the alcove, Gray considered

his next step. He did not underestimate Dragomiloff, who had taught

him not only the beauty of logic, ethics, and morality, but who had

also taught him to break a man’s neck with one swift blow. There was a

sudden shudder to the ship, and he stiffened, but it was only the great

engines below beginning to revolve, warming up preparatory to sailing.

In the silence of the deserted corridor Gray considered and rejected

the thought of using his revolver. In the confined space the sound

would be deafening, escape made that much more difficult. Instead he

withdrew a thin, sharp knife from a holster on his forearm, and tested

the edge briefly against his thumb. Satisfied, he gripped it firmly,

edge uppermost, while his other hand crept to the lock, master-key in

hand.

One quick glance assured him that he was alone in the passageway; the

passengers were all asleep. As silently as possible he inserted the

key, turning it slowly.

To his surprise the door was suddenly jerked inwards. Before he could

recover his balance he was being pulled into the room and strong

fingers were being clamped upon the hand holding the knife. But Gray’s

reactions had always been swift. Rather than pulling back, he went

forward with his assailant, pushing fiercely, adding his weight to the

impetus of the other’s force. The two men fell in a sprawl against the

bunk beneath the porthole. With a sudden heave, Gray was on his feet,

twisting to one side, the knife once more firmly in position in his

fingers. Dragomiloff was also on his feet, hands outstretched, his taut

fingers searching for an opening to give a death-touch to his opponent.

For a moment they stood panting a few feet from one another. The small

electric lights from the dock gave the cabin eerie shadows. Then, swift

as lightning, Gray’s arm flashed forwards, the knife whistling in the

darkness. But it encountered only empty air; Dragomiloff had dropped

to the floor, and as the other’s arm swept above him he reached up and

clutched it, twisting. With a smothered cry Gray dropped the knife and

fell upon the smaller man, straining with his free hand for a grip on

the other’s throat.

They fought in fury and in silence, two trained assassins each aware

of the other’s ability and each convinced of the rightness, as well

as the necessity, for the other’s death. Each hold and counter-hold

was automatic; their proficiency in the death-science of the Japanese

equal and devastating. Beneath them the rumble of the huge pistons

slowly turning over increased. Within the stateroom the battle waged

relentlessly, grip matching grip, their panting breath now lost in the

larger sound of the ship’s engines.

Their thrashing legs encountered the open door; it slammed shut. Gray

attempted to roll free and suddenly felt his lost knife pressing

against his shoulder blades. With a thrust of his arched back he rolled

further, fending off Dragomiloff’s attack with one hand while he

searched for the weapon with his other. And then his fingers found it.

Twisting violently, he pulled free, swinging the blade for a frontal

blow, and thrust it forward viciously. He felt it bite into something

soft and for one second he relaxed. And in that moment Dragomiloff’s

eager fingers found the spot they had been seeking. Gray fell back, his

fingers dragging the knife from the mattress of the bunk with their

last dying effort.

Dragomiloff staggered to his feet, staring sombrely down at the shadowy

figure of his old friend lying at the foot of the narrow bunk. He

leaned against the closed porthole, fighting to regain his breath,

aware of how much the years had taken from his fighting ability. He

rubbed his face wearily. Still, he thought, he had not succumbed to

Gray’s attack, and Gray was as deadly as any member.

A sudden rap at the door brought immediate awareness to him. He bent

swiftly, rolling the dead body out of sight beneath the bunk, and came

quietly to stand beside the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Constantine? Could I see you a moment, sir?”

“One second.”

Dragomiloff switched on the stateroom light; a swift glance about the

room revealed nothing too incriminating. He straightened a chair,

threw the blanket back to conceal the torn mattress, and slipped into

a dressing-gown. He glanced about once more. Satisfied that all was

presentable, he opened the door a crack and yawned widely into the face

of the purser.

“Yes? What is it?”

The purser looked embarrassed.

“A Mr. Gray, sir. Did he stop down to see you?”

“Oh, that. Yes, he did. But it was really too bad his bothering me,

you know. He was looking for a Mr. Dragomovitch, or something. He

apologized and left. Why?”

“The ship is sailing, sir. Do you suppose he might have gone ashore in

the last few moments? While I was coming down here?”

Dragomiloff yawned again and stared at the purser coldly.

“I’m sure I have no idea. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really would

like to get some rest.”

“Certainly, sir. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Dragomiloff locked the door and once again switched off the lights. He

sat on the small chair furnished with the stateroom and stared at the

locked porthole thoughtfully. Tomorrow would be too late; there would

be stewards cleaning the cabins. Even morning would be too late; early

strollers about the decks were not uncommon. It would have to be now,

with all the attendant dangers. With patience he settled back to await

the ship’s departure.

Voices came from the deck above as lines were cast off and the ship

prepared to leave the dock. The rumble of the engines increased; a

slight motion was imparted to the cabin. Above his head the faint

pounding of feet could be heard as seamen ran back and forth, winching

in the lines, obeying the exigencies of the steel monster which was to

take them across the ocean.

The cries on deck abated. Dragomiloff carefully unbolted the porthole

and thrust his head out. The watery gap between the pier and the ship

was slowly widening; the lights strung along the warehouses were

fading in distance. He listened carefully for footsteps from above;

there were none. Returning to his task he rolled the body free from

its hiding place and, bending, lifted it with ease to prop it on the

bunk. One last searching glance indicated that the coast was clear. He

thrust the flaccid arms through the porthole and fed the body into the

open air. It fell with a faint splash; Dragomiloff waited quietly for

any outbreak of sound from above. There was none. With graven face he

latched the porthole, pulled the drapes tightly over them, and re-lit

the light.

One final check was necessary before retiring, for Dragomiloff was a

thorough man. The knife was stowed in a suitcase, and the bag locked.

The slit in the mattress was covered with the sheet, reversed and

tucked in tightly. The rug was straightened. Only when the room had

regained its former appearance did Dragomiloff relax and slowly begin

undressing.

It had been a busy night, but one step further along his inexorable

path.

_Chapter XV_

Lucoville rapped sharply upon Starkington’s hotel-room door and when

the door swung back, entered and quietly laid a newspaper upon the

table. Starkington’s eye immediately caught the black headlines, and he

read through the lurid account rapidly.