Dr. O’Grady left the room and closed the door behind him. His spirits,
owing to the ten-pound note which lay in his breast pocket, were
cheerful. He whistled “The Minstrel Boy” as he walked along the
passage. Just as he reached that part of the tune which goes with the
discovery of the boy in the ranks of death he stopped abruptly and
swore. He was seized from behind by two men, flung to the ground with
some violence, and held there flat on his back. A few useless struggles
convinced him that he could not make good his escape. He lay still and
looked at his captors. The foreign gentleman with the long black beard
was one of them. The other was the man whom Dr. O’Grady had declared
to be a Norwegian. He was a powerful man, adorned with a mass of fair
hair which fell down over his forehead and gave him a look of unkempt
ferocity. Behind these two who knelt beside and on Dr. O’Grady stood
Mr. Red.
“Hullo, Emperor!” said the Doctor, “what’s the game now? If you want
a gladiatorial show, with me and these two swashbucklers as chief
performers, you ought to have given me fair notice. You can’t expect a
man to put up much of a fight when he’s caught from behind just as he’s
in the middle of whistling a tune.”
“You have learned too much,” said Mr. Red, with fierce intensity.
“It is necessary in the interests of the Brotherhood to secure your
silence.”
“Right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You shall secure it. One hundred and fifty
pounds down and the secrets of the Brotherhood are safe. Or if prompt
cash inconveniences you in any way, I’ll be quite content with your
name on the back of a bill. Jimmy O’Loughlin would cash it.”
“I have passed judgment on you,” said Mr. Red, “and the scales are
depressed on the side of mercy. Your life is spared. You remain a
captive until the plans of the Brotherhood are matured and discovery
can be set at defiance. Then you will be released.”
“If that’s all,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you needn’t have knocked me down
and set these two brigands to kneel on my chest and legs. I haven’t
the slightest objection to remaining a captive. I shall enjoy it. Of
course, I shall expect to be paid a reasonable fee for my time. I’m a
professional man.”
“Number 2 and Number 3,” said Mr. Red, “will bind you and convey you to
the place of confinement.”
He spoke a few words to his assistants in a language which Dr. O’Grady
did not understand. Two ropes were produced.
“If you choose to tie me up,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you can do it of
course. But you’ll simply be wasting time and energy. I’ve told you
already that I don’t in the least mind being a captive. Just you tell
me the place you want me to go to, and if it isn’t an insanitary,
underground dungeon, I shall step into it with the greatest pleasure,
and stay there without making the least attempt at escape as long as
you choose to go on paying me my fees.”
“Give your parole,” said Mr. Red.
“Parole? Oh, yes, of course; I know the thing you mean now. I’ll give
it, certainly--swear it if you like. And now, like a good man, tell
your fair-haired pirate to get off my legs. He’s hurting my left ankle
abominably.”
Mr. Red gave an order, and Dr. O’Grady was allowed to stand up.
“Now for the cell,” he said. “I know this house pretty well, and I
should suggest that you give me the two rooms on the top floor which
open into each other. And look here, Emperor, I’m a first-class
political prisoner, of course. I’m not going to do any hard labour, or
get out of bed before I want to in the morning. I must be decently fed,
and supplied with tobacco. You agree to all that I suppose?”
“Lead the prisoner upstairs,” said Mr. Red.
“One minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “We haven’t settled yet about my fee.
Let me see, what would you say--my time is valuable, you know. I have
a very extensive practice, including the nobility and gentry of the
neighbourhood; Lord Manton, for instance, and Jimmy O’Loughlin’s wife.
What would you say to----? Good Lord! Emperor, put that thing down, it
might go off!”
Mr. Red had taken a revolver from his pocket, and pointed it at Dr.
O’Grady’s head.
“Lead the prisoner upstairs,” he said.
“I’m going all right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “But, like a good man, put
down that pistol. I dare say it’s not loaded, and I’m sure you don’t
mean to pull the trigger; but it makes me feel nervous. If you injure
me you will be in a frightful fix. There isn’t another doctor nearer
than Ballymoy, and he’s no good of a surgeon. Do be careful.”
Mr. Red took no notice of this remonstrance. He held the revolver at
arm’s length, pointed straight at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The doctor turned
quickly and walked upstairs. He was ushered into a large empty room,
and bidden to stand in a corner of it. Still covered by the threatening
revolver he watched various preparations made, first for his security,
then for his comfort. There were two windows in the room. The
black-bearded foreigner nailed barbed wire across them in such a way as
to make an entanglement through which it was impossible to thrust even
a hand.
“That’s quite unnecessary,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’m familiar with this
house, have been over it half a dozen times with Lord Manton, and I
know that there’s a sheer drop of thirty feet out of those windows on
to the paved yard at the back of the house. I shouldn’t dream of trying
to jump out.”
Mr. Red stood with the revolver in his hand glaring at Dr. O’Grady. His
two assistants left the room.
“I do wish,” said the doctor plaintively, “that you’d put that gun
down.”
By way of reply, Mr. Red settled himself in an heroic attitude,
something like that usually adopted by the hero on the cover of a
sixpenny novel when he is defending his lady from desperate villains.
He kept the revolver levelled at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The bearded man,
Number 2, returned, dragging a small iron bedstead after him. Number 3
followed him with a mattress, pillows, and some blankets.
“For me?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Thanks. Now fetch a washhand-stand, a jug
and basin, a table, a couple of chairs, some food, tobacco, and a few
books. Then I’ll be able to manage along all right.”
One thing after another was added to the furniture of the room until
it began to look fairly comfortable. Dr. O’Grady observed with
satisfaction that a substantial meal was spread on the table, and a box
of cigars laid on the washhand-stand.
“Would it be any harm my asking,” he said, “how long you intend to keep
me here? I have some rather pressing engagements just at present, and
I should like to have an idea when I’ll get home. Of course, I don’t
press the question if it inconveniences the Brotherhood to answer it
before the plans are matured.”
“You shall be paid at the rate of £4 a day during the time that you are
detained,” said Mr. Red.
“Make it £5,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and I’ll stay a year with you and
settle my own washing bills.”
“In four weeks,” said Mr. Red, “the plans of the Brotherhood will be
matured, and you can be released.”
“I’m sorry it’s no longer,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The arrangement is
perfectly satisfactory to me. But look here, Emperor, have you taken
into consideration that I shall be missed? Before four weeks are out
they’ll be certain to start out looking for me. Search parties will go
out with lanterns and bloodhounds. You know the kind of thing I mean.
They won’t come straight here, of course; nobody has any reason to
suppose that I’m in this house; but sooner or later they certainly will
come. I don’t mind telling you that there are a couple of men--Jimmy
O’Loughlin for one, and Lorraine Vavasour for another--who will be
particularly keen on finding me. What will you do when they turn up?”
“The waters of the bay are deep,” said Mr. Red grimly. “Your body will
not be found.”
“I catch your meaning all right,” said Dr. O’Grady, “but I think
you’ll make a mistake if you push things to extremes in that way.
You’ve got the usual idea into your head that Ireland is a country
in which every one kills any one they don’t like, and no questions
are ever asked. I don’t in the least blame you for thinking so. Any
intelligent man, reading the newspapers, would be forced to that
conclusion; but, as a matter of fact, Ireland isn’t that sort of
country at all. We have our little differences with each other, of
course; all high-spirited people quarrel now and then, but we really
hardly ever drown anybody. We don’t want to; but even if we were ever
so keen we couldn’t without great risk. The country is overrun with
police, and---- I beg your pardon, did you speak?”
Mr. Red had not actually spoken. He had snarled in a curious and
vicious way.
“The police----” said Dr. O’Grady.
Mr. Red snarled again.
“If you object to my mentioning them by name,” said Dr. O’Grady,
“I won’t do it. All I wanted to say was that in Ireland they live
extremely dull lives, and any little excitement--a cattle drive, or
an escaped lunatic--is a positive godsend to them. A murder--perhaps
I ought to say an informal execution, such as you contemplate--would
bring them down to this neighbourhood in thousands. There’d be so many
of them that they simply wouldn’t be able to help tripping over my body
wherever you hid it. Don’t imagine that I’m saying all this with a view
to preventing your cutting my throat. What I’m really thinking about,
what you ought to be thinking about, is the Brotherhood. How will its
plans ever be matured if you get yourself hanged? And they will hang
you, you know.”
“I am prepared to die,” said Mr. Red majestically, “in the cause of the
Anti-Militarist Brotherhood of Anarchists.”
“Of course you are. Anybody who knows anything about military
anarchists knows that. My point is that your life is too valuable
to be thrown away. How would poor Long Beard get on? And the other
fair-haired highwayman? Neither of them knows a word of English.”
“If the accursed minions of an effete tyranny seize me----!”
“Quite so. I see your point. Death before dishonour, and all that kind
of thing. But why let it come to that? I am perfectly willing to stay
here as long as you like at the liberal salary you offer, cash down
every evening. I’m quite as anxious as you are to keep the accursed
minions of the what-do-you-call-it away from Rosivera. I don’t mind
telling you in confidence that I have reasons of my own for avoiding
any contact with the law at present. In my particular case it isn’t
nearly so effete as you appear to think it ought to be. But I needn’t
go into all that. It wouldn’t interest you, and it’s no pleasure to
me to talk about that beast Lorraine Vavasour. What I want to suggest
is a simple and practicable way of avoiding all fuss, and keeping the
accursed minions quiet in their barracks.”
“Speak,” said Mr. Red.
“I am speaking. For a man who hasn’t had any breakfast this morning, I
flatter myself I’m speaking pretty fluently. Don’t be captious, Field
Marshal. I don’t mind your manner a bit, now that I’m getting used to
it. I know that it’s quite the right kind of manner for a military
anarchist, but there’s no use over-doing it.”
“Your plan?” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.
“I wish you’d lay that weapon down, Emperor. I’ve told you half a dozen
times that I haven’t the least intention of trying to escape, and it
will be a horrid nuisance if the thing goes off and injures me. My
suggestion is simply this. I’ll write a letter blotted all over with
tears, saying that driven to desperation by Lorraine Vavasour and Jimmy
O’Loughlin I’ve committed suicide, and that all search for my body will
be vain. Owing to circumstances which I need not explain, circumstances
not unconnected with Lorraine Vavasour, the story will be believed in
Clonmore and no further steps will be taken in the matter. All you will
have to do is to drop the letter into the pillar-box which is only half
a mile from your gate. I happen to know that that box is cleared at
eight P.M., so any time to-day will do. I’ll address it to the police
sergeant.”
Mr. Red gave an order to one of the two foreigners. The man left the
room and returned in a few minutes with a supply of note-paper, a pen,
and a bottle of ink. He laid them beside the food on the table in the
middle of the room.
“Write,” said Mr. Red.
“I forgot to mention,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that I’m engaged to be
married to a young lady in Leeds. Miss Blow is her name--Adeline Maud
Blow. I dare say you’ve heard of her father in connection with cigars.
He’s a tobacconist and advertises a good deal. ‘Blow’s beauties,
twopence each.’ You must have heard of them. They’re beastly things as
a matter of fact, and I don’t recommend them to friends, but they’re
amazingly popular.”
“Write,” said Mr. Red.
“I am going to write. Don’t hustle me, like a good man. What I want to
say to you is this, that I must send a line to Adeline Maud as well as
to the police sergeant. I want to tell her that I’m not really dead,
only bluffing.”
“That,” said Mr. Red, “is impossible.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing impossible about it. It’s just as easy to
write two letters as one. I shan’t mention the Brotherhood to her, and
if I did she would have more sense than to talk about it. If you don’t
believe me you can read the letter yourself.”
“I trust no woman.”
“That,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is a most illiberal sentiment, and I’m
surprised to hear you utter it. If you’d been an old-fashioned Tory
now, or an Irish landlord, or a Liberal Cabinet Minister, I could have
understood your position; but in a military----”
“Anti-militarist,” said Mr. Red.
“That’s what I meant. In an anti-militarist, that sort of prejudice
against women is most inconsistent. Who was it that hammered a nail
into Sisera’s head? A woman, and an anti-military woman. Who was it
that stuck a knife into that horrid beast Marat, when he was sitting
in his bath? A woman again. Who was it that shot that Russian governor
the other day? I’ve forgotten her name for the minute, but you know who
I mean. It was a woman. She did for him on a railway platform. And yet
you stand up there calling yourself an advanced kind of anarchist, and
say that you can’t trust a woman. Emperor, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Just think the matter out and you’ll see that when it comes
to thorough-going, out-and-out revolutions women are quite the most
trustworthy kind of people there are.”
Mr. Red gave another brief order in his foreign language. The
fair-haired anarchist stepped forward and took away the note-paper, pen
and ink.
“What are you at now?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Surely to goodness you’re not
going back on the suicide plan? Oh, very well. I can’t help it. But
you’ll be sorry afterwards when the police come here looking for me.”
“I have spoken,” said Mr. Red.
“You have not. You’ve growled occasionally, but nobody could call your
remarks speaking.”
“I leave you,” said Mr. Red. “Remember.”
“Remember what? Oh, you’re going, are you? Just wait one instant. You
refuse to let me write to Adeline Maud. Very well. You don’t know
Adeline Maud, but I do. Even supposing the police can’t find me, or my
body after you’ve cut my throat, and supposing that Jimmy O’Loughlin
and Lorraine Vavasour give up the pursuit--from what I know of Lorraine
I think it most unlikely that he will--you’ll still have to reckon with
Adeline Maud. She’s a most determined young woman. All the perseverance
which has gone to making ‘Blow’s beauties’ the popular smokes they are
at twopence each has descended from her father to her. When she finds
out that I’ve disappeared she’ll go on searching till she finds me.
The ordinary sleuth-hound is absolutely nothing to her for persistence
in the chase. It will be far wiser for you--in the interests of the
Brotherhood I mean--to let me head her off, by telling her that I’ll
turn up again all right.”
“Farewell,” said Mr. Red.
“I ought to mention before you go,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Adeline
Maud may be in Clonmore to-morrow. I’m expecting a visit---- Damn it!
The fool is gone and shut the door behind him.”
Mr. Red had, in fact, entirely ignored the announcement of Miss
Blow’s impending arrival. He and his two friends left the room, and,
distrustful of the parole which had been given, locked the door behind
them. Dr. O’Grady turned to the breakfast provided for him with an
excellent appetite.
“Silly old ass that Emperor is,” he murmured. “I suppose now he’ll go
and sit down beside his yellow crocodiles in the dining-room and try to
invent some new kind of dynamite. He ought, as a matter of fact, to be
in an asylum. Some day he will be if he doesn’t blow himself up first.
Anyhow this is a jolly good business for me. If he chooses to pay me
four pounds a day for sitting here twiddling my thumbs, I’m quite
content. I only hope it will be some time before they think of looking
for me at Rosivera. I must try and hit on a plan for putting the police
off the scent. I wonder how long it will last. The Field Marshal
suggested four weeks. Seven times four--even putting it as low as four
pounds a day--and I’ll try to screw him up a bit--seven times four are
twenty-eight. And four times twenty-eight is a hundred and twelve. That
with the tenner I’ve got will make £122. I’ll make a clear £100 out of
it anyway, and they won’t have time to elect another dispensary doctor
before I get out.”