THE MEETING OF THE FRATERNITY
The fog held, and Nick's train ran very late, but the time did not hang
heavy on his hands; in fact he could almost have wished it longer. The
first thing he did was to go through Davies's dispatch-case, in which
he found the Western representative's official report to the Chief.
After he had read it, Nick sat for a minute or two, lost in thought.
Fate had dealt him wonderful cards, but now everything depended on his
skill in playing his hand. He sat in a corner of the carriage, staring
with unseeing eyes at the window, trying to memorise every gesture and
mannerism of the man whose part he meant to play. The voice, which
would have been the worst stumbling-block to most men, presented no
difficulties to Nick. He was a born mimic, and had cultivated the art
all his life. He had heard Davies speak many times, and knew that
he could imitate that swift, lilting Welsh voice, with all its odd
turns of speech, so that no one would suspect him. Handwriting was
the greatest difficulty, so Nick, with the signed report as a copy,
practised Davies's signature on the backs of old envelopes, with all
the absorbed diligence of an accomplished forger.
Nick was happy--happier than he had been through all these months of
hunting. At last he was coming to grips with the enemy and, into the
bargain, playing a game after his own heart. It was a dangerous game
and a lonely one, and on his success hung the safety of the nation.
Nick lit a cigarette, and surveyed his last effort at forgery with
critical approval.
'Hand rather shaky still,' he murmured. 'Must make allowances. Good
enough.'
Then as the increasing clatter and brighter lights told him that the
train was drawing in to Paddington, he destroyed the envelopes and
began to apply his mind to the question of disguise. Luckily, Davies
was a tall man, near enough to Nick's own height, but there the
resemblance ceased. Davies was dark and sallow, and had a drooping
black moustache. Nick was fair, clean-shaven, and tanned a healthy
brown. Davies had hazel eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. Nick's eyes
were grey, and his jaw was decidedly square.
The station clocks stood at 8.40 as the train pulled in to the
platform. Nick realised that there was no time to be lost, and hailing
a taxi, made for his flat as quickly as possible. When he emerged,
twenty minutes later, his head and face were swathed in bandages, and
his eyes were masked by big horn-rimmed spectacles, such as Davies
usually affected.
The late editions were already announcing the Great Western disaster.
Nick could hear the newsboys' shrill voices as he set off in a taxi for
Link Street. He caught sight of one flaring headline: 'Cardiff Express
Collision in Fog.' This would help, too. The Fraternity would be
prepared for his story and his belated arrival. Fate was indeed doing
him handsomely. As an after-thought, he had tied up his right arm in
a sling. It might be as well to have an alibi when it came to forging
Davies's name, and also it would explain his slowness in writing. Nick
had had some experience of forgery, but he knew he could not do it with
a flourish.
The taxi drew up. Nick got out, paid the driver, and surveyed the place
with interest. Number 20 was one of a big block of offices in a long,
grey street, empty, save for a few men lounging round a cab-rank a
hundred yards away. There was no porter at the door, and he entered the
high, stone-flagged hall. On the wall was a brass plate, giving the
names of the various offices. On the second floor there was only one,
and he stared at the neat black lettering with a puzzled frown.
'The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.'
For one moment he wondered whether Davies had given him the wrong
address. Then he smiled.
'The Chief must have a sense of humour,' he thought, 'which means he
can't be a fanatic. S.P.G.! How perfect! And no deception, of course;
but _what_ a gospel! Well, well, let's have at it.'
At the far end of the hall was an automatic lift. Nick went up to the
second floor. As he emerged he found himself facing a door with the
title of the society painted on it. He rang, and the door was opened by
a grave-faced, square-shouldered man who looked like a valet.
'I'm very sorry, sir,' said the man, 'but Mr. Robertson cannot see
anyone to-night. He is conducting a special prayer meeting.'
'I know it,' said Nick, through the fold of bandage across his jaw.
'Hope I haven't kept the Fraternity waiting?'
'Lord, it's Mr. Davies!' said the man, staring. 'But there, it's no
wonder I didn't know you till you spoke. Are you hurt bad? They've all
been very anxious about you.'
'Nothing serious. Indeed, all that's wrong is a few cuts about the face
and a bit of a shake-up.'
'That's a mercy,' said the doorkeeper. 'They'll be no end relieved to
see you.' Then he added, in a lower tone, 'The Chief's here, you know.'
'I knew he was to be here. Will you take me to him?'
For a moment the doorkeeper stared, a faint suspicion in his face.
'You must have taken a conk on the head,' he said. 'Since when have the
First Four needed announcing?'
Nick took a step forward, reeling a little, and leant against the wall
as if exhausted. The doorkeeper caught him by the shoulder.
'Steady, Mr. Davies. I say, d'you feel bad? Here, sit down a minute.
I'll get you some brandy.'
'No, no, it's nothing. I still have moments of faintness. Give me an
arm; I mustn't keep the Chief waiting.'
'Half a minute. You sit down in that chair, and I'll bring the
register. To tell the truth, I'd put it away.'
He crossed the room to a desk and unlocked a drawer. Nick watched him,
unseeing. So 'Mr. Robertson' was the name. Was Mr. Robertson the Chief?
The doorkeeper returned with a large, leather-bound book and a fountain
pen.
'The muster roll was complete half an hour ago, all bar you,' he
explained. 'I'd given up all hope of your coming. Here you are. Take
your time; I'll hold the book.'
Nick tried not to stare at the page before him. Davies must have seen
it many times, but to him it was a revelation. It was a register of
all the county leaders, each man's signature against the name of his
county, and above, the names of the district representatives, North,
South, East, and West. He realised that this meeting would be over
sixty strong, and breathed a sigh of relief. The bigger the crowd, the
better chance he had of remaining unsuspected. Then the porter dropped
a bombshell.
'Lucky you're left-handed,' he remarked, his eyes on the arm-sling.
Nick's brain raced. Was it a trap? He'd made one slip already. Did the
porter suspect him? _Was_ Davies left-handed? For one wild second he
racked his brain for a memory of the man. A thousand pictures of Davies
addressing a crowd ... no use at all, for Davies used both hands in
those dramatic gestures of his ... and then, thank God! a sudden memory
of the tall Welshman drinking a glass of water.
'I'm not,' he said.
There was a moment's silence, in which Nick felt he could almost hear
his own heart beating. Then the doorkeeper nodded.
'No more you are,' he said. 'I must have been thinking of Mr. Crawford.
Well, you'd better sign, sir.'
Nick complied, realising with an inward grin at his own expense that
there was no need to feign a shakiness at this moment. Laboriously
he wrote 'H. L. Davies' in the space left above the Western Counties
names, and gave back the pen.
'Right,' said the doorkeeper, putting the volume back in the desk
drawer. 'And now let me give you an arm. Sure you won't have a drink
first?'
Nick shook his head impatiently, and, leaning on the man's shoulder,
limped down the passage. At the end was a plain wooden door, and here
the porter left him with a cheery 'See you later, Mr. Davies.'
Nick waited for a moment, making a rapid inventory, as it were, of all
his Davies knowledge, and then opened the door. As he did so, a buzz of
conversation reached his ears.
'What are we going to do about it?'
'He ought to be here by now, if he's coming.'
'I wish to Heaven he'd come on our train.'
'Well, unless he's killed'--this was a bluff, North Country
voice--'he'll get here yet. I'll back Davies every time.'
'Thank you,' said Nick, entering and shutting the door behind him.
There was a confused cry of surprise and welcome. Men crowded round
him, welcoming him, asking questions, expressing concern for his
bandaged head and arm. Nick, replying in Davies's curt, crisp voice,
found his eyes search vainly for any man who might be the Chief. It was
a large room, and seemed filled with men; men of all classes and types;
but all of them seemed to be waiting, as he was. Then one of his Welsh
group spoke to him, a little man named Williams, whom Nick knew well by
sight.
'I suppose the Chief _is_ here?' he said. 'He's supposed to be in the
next room with R.O., and the other three, but so far we haven't seen
him.'
'He'll come when he sees fit,' said Nick, with a certainty he was far
from feeling.
'That's all very well,' grumbled the other. 'I tell you, Davies, I'm
getting tired of following a mythical leader. You told us he'd hold
this meeting himself, but he didn't. R.O. took it, as usual.'
'Did he say anything of interest?' asked Nick.
'Just what you said he would. We were given our final instructions, and
if the Chief is satisfied with the reports, R.O. says he may even fix
the date to-night.'
Nick nodded carelessly, but his pulses were beginning to pound. The
date meant the day of the rising itself, he felt certain. He was
wondering whether he ought to go and attack the inner room where the
Chief was conferring with R.O.--whoever he might be--and the other
Three. This last Nick realised to be the Northern, Southern, and
Eastern representatives, and his place should obviously be with them.
The man beside him cut short his thoughts by whispering: 'Here's R.O.
at last!' and Nick turned to see a young man approaching him with
outstretched hand.
'Well done, Davies!' he was saying. 'I've only just been told of your
arrival. Can't tell you how worried we've been about you. We knew you
were on that train, you see. Why didn't you come right in? Hope you've
got your report? Good. Come along, the Chief's very anxious to see you.'
With that he turned and led the way across the room. Nick followed,
thankful that no reply was expected of him. He had just remembered
where and how he had met this young man before. Barely a month ago
they had been fellow-guests at a party given by Mrs. Lancaster--Adele
Lancaster--that smart and lovely widow, whose literary parties were so
famous among the younger intellectuals. Nick attended these parties
from a purely self-educational point of view. He had a passion for
acquiring dialects, and though this misty, super-artistic language was
probably as old as the hills, he had not run across it till now, and
had set himself to learn it with much energy and considerable success.
This young man had talked it with ease, and Nick remembered watching
him at that party and wondering if he were really such a fool as he
looked and sounded. And so _he_ had a dual personality, too. This might
be useful. Nick grinned under his mask of bandages as he followed his
guide into the inner room.
'Here is Davies, sir,' said R.O., and stood back to allow Nick to enter.
There were four men in the room, but Nick hardly realised it, for his
whole mind was occupied with one: a tall, erect man with a pointed
black beard, who rose slowly to his feet and held out his hand.
'Well played, Davies,' he said quietly.
As Nick returned the grip he felt a sudden glow: the quick response of
a man who has done good work, and whose effort has been understood
and appreciated by his superior; the realisation that makes the
hardest job seem supremely worth while. It was the glow he had felt
as a subaltern when he had been praised by Jack Strickland, that best
of company commanders. _Strickland!_ With a jerk that seemed almost
physical he pulled himself together and realised the yawning chasm that
had suddenly opened at his feet. He had been on the point of a smiling
denial ... 'Oh, rot, sir. Anyone would have done as much' ... and in
his own voice. Davies would never have said that ... and he was Davies.
Good God! he had forgotten, under the spell of this man's charm, that
he was Davies. He hunched one shoulder, in Davies's awkward manner, and
spoke huskily:
'Nothing is too great for the Cause, Chief.'
There was a moment's pause--a moment that seemed an age--while the
bearded man stood still, regarding him, and Nick fought desperately
for his self-control. This man was his own sort; a man who could speak
his own language and play the game he himself played, with the same
delight. A born leader, quick to understand, radiating the strength of
his personality; a man one would be proud to follow. Such a man would
never let his followers down ... and then Nick remembered that this man
was plotting the overthrow of England and, to Nick's mind at least, was
proposing to let down every soul that enlisted under his revolutionary
banner. Abruptly his vision cleared. What a man to follow, indeed; but
still more, what an enemy to fight!
'True, Davies,' the Chief was saying, 'the Cause is worthy of any
sacrifice. Your spirit is an example to us all. And now, your report.'
Nick, fumbling with the catch of Davies's dispatch-case, was conscious
of a pang of disappointment. A man didn't speak of 'The Cause' in that
tone. It was melodrama. And then he realised that Davies did, and it
was to Davies the Chief was speaking. He drew a long breath, feeling
like a man who has fought his way through flames, to emerge unhurt.
As he had suspected, this was the secret of the Chief's power; that
to every man he could seem his own sort, quick to understand, utterly
sincere in sympathy. 'Genius!' he said to himself, and realised that
the worst danger was over, and for him, at least, that strange power
was dead. He took Davies's closely written report from the case and
held it out, swaying a little on his feet as he did so. The Chief
thrust forward a chair.
'Take it easy, Davies,' he advised. 'You've been through a great
strain.' He took the report as Nick sat down. 'I need not go through
this evening's proceedings with you,' he went on. 'You know what we
planned for this meeting. All I need tell you is that matters are
progressing admirably. Russia has definitely promised the money on
no security other than the signatures of our county and district
leaders. This is merely as proof that our plans have a solid backing.
If you want any details, R.O. can give them to you while I am reading
your report. I may say that if it is as good as those of the other
Three'--he smiled at the men behind him--'I shall be in a position to
announce the date to-night.'
Nick sat still, not daring to ask questions for fear of betraying
himself. Who _was_ this man, this Mr. Robertson? After all these months
of hunting he had come face to face with him, and was no nearer the
solution. He rested his head in his hands, feigning faintness, and the
other men made no attempt to engage him in talk. Luck had stood by him
so far, but time was growing short. He would certainly not get such a
chance again, and must make the most of it.
At last the Chief rose to his feet, tapping the report with his finger.
'Davies, I congratulate you. You have done magnificently. R.O., summon
the meeting. Gentlemen,' he nodded to the Four, 'if you will take your
places I will join you in a moment.'
The young secretary opened the door, and Nick with his three colleagues
filed out into the meeting-room. Every head turned to watch them,
and the atmosphere was tense with suppressed excitement. The First
Four--Nick carefully following the Northern representative--seated
themselves at a table facing the room. R.O. stood between them, North
and West on his right hand, South and East on his left, and rapped on
the table for silence. There was a sudden hush.
'Comrades,' he said, 'take your places. In a few moments the Chief will
speak to you.'
A murmur ran round the company, and the men made their way to the rows
of chairs that faced the table. Nick watched them with increasing
interest and surprise. These men were no fanatics, but intelligent,
level-headed Englishmen. There was not a weak or a vicious face among
them. They sprang from every social rank in the country, but each
man was a first-class type of his kind. Again Nick marvelled at the
personality of a man who could control thousands he had never seen;
who could project his influence through four men in such a way as to
bring this light into the eyes of these sixty-seven county leaders, and
through them again to the rank and file. All the mysticism of his Irish
blood rose in Nick. This was magic. The Chief had bewitched these men.
They were mesmerised by the unseen power of their leader, as he himself
had been so nearly mesmerised by his presence. These men, these sturdy,
honest, hard-working Englishmen, were no danger in themselves. Remove
the Chief, and they would revert to their normal lives. Metaphorically
they would rub their eyes and wonder what this wild dream had been.
The Chief was literally the heart of this great body, and directly
the heart ceased to function the body would die. In a way, it was a
comforting thought. Nick had maintained so stoutly that Bolshevism was
an utterly alien thing to the English mind, and now--even in the face
of this great expectant gathering--he felt certain of it. The Chief
must be put out of the way; that was essential; but not one of these
men should be incriminated if Nick could help it.
As he came to this decision the Chief entered the room. Nick did
not hear the door open, but he saw the faces before him light up
with the same recognition that had filled him a few moments before.
Each one of those men before him was feeling that sense of kinship
and understanding, and as he watched, he realised the psychological
genius of the man in remaining unseen until this eleventh hour. These
followers of his would leave the meeting keyed up to a pitch of
enthusiasm and loyalty that would carry them through death itself.
'It _is_ hypnotism!' thought Nick. And then as the Chief began to
speak, and with every word Nick felt his power grow, he began to be
afraid. This man had humour and balance, and a mind as clean and
cutting sharp as a razor-blade. Such a man could never believe in
his ability to change the whole temperament of the nation. For all
that swift sympathy, so irresistible on first sight, there was a
cold cruelty about the man; an utter indifference to human life and
happiness. This man, Nick felt, with sudden insight, would give up his
life with complete satisfaction for the sake of a month's gratification
of his lust for supreme power. He would probably die gladly, for too
long a spell would bore him. In this cause he was proposing to raise
revolution in England, to risk the lives of his followers, to bring
ruin and suffering to his country. Nick's jaw set grimly as he listened
to the Chief's level voice.
He spoke slowly and quietly; there was nothing melodramatic or
impassioned in his speech, but every word rang with an inspired
sincerity and conviction, and with every word Nick knew he was binding
his listeners more closely to his cause. These men had been loyal
admirers; they were now worshippers. The Chief had given them that
touch of fanaticism that he needed in his adherents. Little bursts
of applause began to break out; stifled, half-hysterical words of
admiration; and once, a burst of cheering. The Chief raised his hand,
and the noise died away with uncanny abruptness.
'My friends,' he said, 'this crusade in which we are enlisting has
been attempted before, and has failed most pitiably for a very obvious
reason. We are English. We may see the hideous injustice of the present
system, and realise the dawn of a new era, but it is a dominant
characteristic of the English mind that we would rather be misruled by
our own people than live in a Utopia run by aliens. That is the rock
on which all previous attempts have split. This time we are safe. We
are all English ... British of every county and class in the Island ...
and because of this we shall succeed. To each one of you, the men you
lead into action will be your own kin. We do not want bloodshed. We
will face it if necessary, but our aim is England's salvation, not her
downfall. She is our England. She has been great, and she will be great
again, so that the world will forget these dark years when her fate
hung so precariously in the balance. We shall save her. As one man we
shall rise to her aid on that glorious day which stands for ever sacred
to the name of Freedom ... July the Fourth!'
There was a moment's silence, and then a storm of cheering. As it broke
out, the Chief turned and disappeared into the inner room. The men were
on their feet, shouting wildly, some with tears in their eyes. Then the
tumult subsided and R.O. stepped forward.
'Comrades,' he said, 'you know the plans, and have your instructions.
Remember that secrecy is now even more important than ever. The First
Four will meet the Chief on June 15th to receive the funds which Russia
is sending us, and any final orders that may be necessary. I have here
the statement to which I referred earlier in the proceedings, the list
of names which we are sending to Moscow as a guarantee of our strength.
Will you all sign it before you leave. Comrades, we have a difficult
time of waiting ahead, but remember, it is not for long. On July the
Fourth we shall meet again, openly and victoriously, to unite all
England, Scotland and Wales, under the banner of the greatest leader
God ever made.'
There was a broken mutter of agreement--a sound that seemed to Nick
more moving than the wildest cheers--and then the county leaders
came forward. Each man signed, bade good-night to the district
representatives and R.O., and then took his departure, quietly and
without haste.
Nick sat still, head in his hands, elbows propped on the table. Even
when his three colleagues rose to add their names to the list he did
not stir. The Eastern and Southern representatives went off quickly,
but the Northerner hesitated, glancing at the silent man at the table.
'Shall I bring the list over to you, Davies?' he asked.
Nick looked up with a start.
'Who--what?' he muttered. 'Oh, the statement. Yes, I'll sign it.'
He wrote his name slowly, his head sagging over the paper, and pushed
it away.
'You're the last, Abbott,' said R.O. 'Not going back to Yorkshire
to-night, are you?'
'No fear, staying in London. There you are, R.O., that's finished.'
The young secretary slipped the paper into a long envelope and sealed
it heavily. The Yorkshireman still hesitated, his eyes anxiously on the
representative for the West.
'Can I give you a lift anywhere, Davies?' he asked.
'No, thanks,' muttered Nick, without looking up.
R.O. caught Abbott's eye, and shook his head. Together they walked to
the door.
'He's damned plucky,' said the Northerner, under his breath, 'but he
looks like death. He ought to be in hospital.'
R.O. smiled. 'I'd be sorry for anyone who tried to take him there,' he
said. 'You don't know Davies as well as I do. He's got the courage of a
lion and a brilliant brain, but he's as independent as blazes, and has
the very devil of a temper if he's rubbed up the wrong way. Even the
Chief admits that he has to be careful how he handles Davies. All the
Welsh pride and all their touchiness. He's best left alone.'
'You may be right,' said Abbott, 'but I don't mind saying I've been
expecting him to collapse at any minute. Have you got any brandy in the
place?'
'No. Oh, yes, we have, though. The Chief always carries a flask.'
'Well, if you take my tip, you'll give him a good dose and get him off
in a taxi. Good-night, R.O.'
The young secretary waved a friendly salute, and returned to
the meeting-room. On the floor, in front of the table, lay the
representative for the West, in a crumpled heap.
'Poor devil!' muttered the boy.
He stooped over the inert body and then, realising that the man was too
big to lift without help, went in search of restoratives. In a moment
or two he returned, and then stopped on the threshold of the room, his
heart in his mouth.
The representative for the West had disappeared, and so had the sealed
envelope.