Happily for the credit of two distinguished men, the train began at
once to slow up and Dowling Junction came in view. This chanced to be
the station for Doe Hill. Saul Hartz opened the carriage door promptly
and got out. Endor got out too.
Outside, in the station yard, three private motors awaited the train’s
arrival. Others of the week-end party were clearly expected. One man,
in point of fact, was already in conversation with the chauffeur of the
first vehicle by the time Hartz and Endor arrived on the scene. This
man, tall and arresting, with the open, alert look of the best type of
American, would have been a striking figure anywhere. George Hierons by
name, his reputation had spread already through two hemispheres as that
of an audaciously progressive thinker; one of a chosen band of pioneers
in the world of mind whom many conceived likely to revolutionize modern
conditions, social, economic and industrial.
As soon as Endor saw the dominant figure of George Hierons he went
straight up to him and with an impulsiveness delightfully frank,
grasped his hand.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “how good--how very good to see you! When
did you reach this country?”
“Ten days ago,” said Hierons, shaking hands cordially.
Saul Hartz, who had met Hierons more than once in New York, came up
also with a salutation. The proffered hand, however, was declined by
the American, who significantly turned aside to greet a remarkable
personage who at that moment, with slow dignity, was approaching the
little group round the first motor. A grave and reverend Celestial,
gorgeous in a jacket of yellow brocade, and the regalia of a high and
exclusive order of his race, exchanged a low bow with George Hierons.
The American at once presented John Endor to this dignitary, but the
controller of the U. P., although he pressed forward for the obvious
purpose of being included in this ceremony, was left out in the cold.
There could be no mistaking the icy antagonism with which both men
regarded him; there could be no mistaking that such an emotion was
fully shared by John Endor. The manner in which all three moved towards
the door of the second motor, leaving Saul Hartz stranded high and dry
in sole possession of the first, seemed to drive the fact home.
The Colossus, aware that a public affront had been given him, turned
upon his heel not without a hint of disdain. His bearing as he entered
the first car, alone, was calm indifference. He cared for none, he
feared none; moreover, he prided himself upon his power of wiping off
old scores and paying grudges with interest. The car waited a minute or
two to give other arrivals an opportunity of joining him. None did so;
and the first of the three cars started for Doe Hill with Saul Hartz
its sole occupant.
As it began to move, there flashed across the mind of the Colossus
the warning of the man Wygram in regard to Lien Weng, the Chinese
occultist. And it came upon him now with the force of a definite
action. Instantly he knew, without a shade of doubt, that he was in
the toils of the Society of the Friends of Peace. Even for one of Saul
Hartz’s iron nerve, such an intuition was not agreeable. Too much was
known of the activities of the Council of Seven, its far-reaching yet
dark power had been too recently demonstrated for such a fact to be
lightly held.
Saul Hartz lit a cigar and then gave careful thought to a decidedly
unpleasant situation. What should he do?
Uppermost, for a moment, was an instinct to tell the chauffeur to drive
him back to the station, so that he might return to London by the next
train. Only a madman or a fool would walk open-eyed into a den of
declared enemies, particularly when they bore the indelible brand of
fanatics and murderers.
There was nothing of the weakling, however, about Saul Hartz. He could
never have reached his present significance in the scheme of things
had there been any taint of will. Less than half a good cigar was
needed to convince him that flight would serve no purpose. Besides,
what direct evidence was there? And even if the case was as he feared,
soon or late the music would have to be faced. Such an organization, in
the light of evidence his own private agents had laboriously collected
during the past two years, was too powerful for one of its chosen
victims to thwart it by running away and hiding his head in sand.
At the back of everything, moreover, and in the last resort was the
_élan vital_ of the born fighter. Saul Hartz loved danger for its own
sake. War, in the inmost fiber of his nature, was the sweetest of all
mistresses. He was the last man in the world to yield to a mere threat.
Let this _Vehmgericht_ do its worst!