"As I told you, I am an Anarchist," he explained shortly, "and by the

oath I took to the cause I was bound to render obedience. In June last

Drabble came to me and stated that the brotherhood could obtain a sum

of fifty thousand pounds; and that I was to help. He introduced me to

Major Semberry, and told me that I was to assume the character of a

man called Angus Carson, from India. Semberry had a portrait of this

man, and I altered my appearance in some degree so as to more clearly

resemble it. This was not difficult, as I was very like the portrait.

I cut my hair short and parted it at the side instead of in the

centre; I let the ends of my moustache droop instead of twisting them

up. Then Drabble told me that I must pretend that my right hand was

injured, and wear it in a sling, which I did. The bracelet was

produced by Drabble and placed on my wrist. Major Semberry then told

me all about Carson's life in India, and took some trouble in seeing

that I acquired a sufficient knowledge of the country. He took me to

his rooms in Marquis Street, St. James's, and made me dress in

Carson's clothes, which he showed me in a sandal-wood chest.

Afterwards I think that he and Drabble must have seen the leader in

the _Morning Planet_ about the sandal-wood scent, for they took

Carson's Indian clothes from me and supplied me with new ones in place

of them."

"But how was it that Mr. Mallow smelt sandal-wood on your clothes, if

this was so?"

Boldini explained. "There was a smart coloured waistcoat," he said,

"which belonged to Carson, which I admired very much. When Drabble

took the clothes from me I kept that back without his knowledge. When

I met Mr. Mallow I was wearing it, and, of course, it was scented by

the box. That was how he noticed the perfume."

"Did you never suspect that this smell was in some way connected with

the murder?"

"No; how should I? I did not know that the real Carson had been

killed; and, although I myself read the leader in the _Morning

Planet_--which was the only report of the case I did read--I never

thought for a moment that the dead man was the one I was representing.

When you, Miss Bellairs, spoke to me of this sandal-wood odour and

Athelstane Place, I was really and truly ignorant of the murder. It

was only on reflection I put two and two together. I remembered the

severed hand and the sandal-wood perfume referred to in the paper; I

knew also that the Carson I represented came from India. Then it was

that I made Semberry tell me the truth. He admitted the murder, but

swore he was ignorant as to who committed it. Then I married you, Miss

Bellairs, and got the money."

"For the Anarchists or for yourself?"

"For myself and Clara," admitted Boldini, shamelessly. "I hated the

Anarchists, and grasped the opportunity to be free from them. I sold

out the stocks and shares, and transferred the proceeds to my real

name at the Crédit Lyonnais. I have the twenty thousand pounds here in

circular notes, because I have to give them to Semberry to-morrow."

"Why did you not give them to-day?"

"Because I would only give them to him in return for the sandal-wood

box and the clothes of Carson--which it contains."

"Why do you want that chest?"

Boldini showed himself in his true colours. "I like Carson's clothes,"

said he, with the simplicity of a child. "He had nice clothes. I am to

have them to-morrow, and then I will pay him the twenty thousand

pounds."

"I am afraid you will have to forego both those pleasures," said

Aldean, grimly. "Your vanity must, in this instance, be sacrificed to

your safety. I will trouble you to hand over those circular notes."

"They are at my hotel," said Boldini, rising with alacrity. "Shall I

go for them?"

"Oh, pray don't trouble. Miss Trall can go for the notes."

Clara looked at Boldini, and Boldini looked at Clara.

Aldean made a shrewd guess that the man was attempting a trick to gain

time, for every now and then his hand wandered mechanically to his

breast pocket. It was probable that the notes were there. Jim expected

a fight for the spoil; but Clara laid down her arms without a murmur,

and instructed Boldini to do the same.

"Give him the notes," said she, curtly.

One by one they were counted and laid on the table before Aldean.

Boldini winced as if he were having a tooth drawn. Olive counted them

and found them correct. There were twenty notes of the value of one

thousand pounds each--printed in francs on the Crédit Lyonnais paper.

"Good," said Aldean, with a nod. "Now for your cheque-book."

"I won't! I won't!" cried Boldini, childishly. "The rest of the money

is mine."

"We need not argue that question over again," said Olive, coldly.

"Write a cheque in my name for thirty thousand pounds--that is, seven

hundred and fifty thousand francs. If not, Lord Aldean shall call up

the police."

"Oh, Clara! what shall I----"

"Give it to them," she interrupted fiercely. "What is the use of

fighting?"

With tears of rage in his eyes Boldini wrote the cheque and gave it to

Olive. She looked at it with a nod, and passed it on to Aldean.

"So far so good," said the latter, cheerfully. "Now, Signor Boldini,

sign this confession."

Without a word the man took pen and signed it, Jim attesting it with a

flourish. "I think that is all," he remarked, rising. "You can go

now."

"Am I not to sign it?" asked Clara, scowling.

"There is no necessity. Beyond that you are a spy, you are of small

account."

"I am of this account," said Clara, furiously, "that Carlo is my

husband."

"Your husband!" exclaimed Olive.

"Yes; we were married a year ago in St. Chad's Church, Marylebone.

Carlo Boldini to Clara Trall. I am his wife--not you."

"Thank God!" said Olive. "Oh, thank God!"

"You are an infernal scoundrel," cried Jim, advancing on Boldini. "I

have a good mind to wring your neck."

Clara threw her arm round the man. "Let us go, Lord Aldean. No words

can alter things now. I am Clara Boldini, and she"--pointing to

Olive--"is nothing."

"I am a free woman, at least. Heaven be praised, I never was that

man's wife. I know now why you agreed so readily to our bargain," she

said, turning on Boldini. "Go, you miserable creature, and lead a

better life if you can."

"I have no money," said Boldini. "Will you give me some?"

"We will arrange that to-morrow," struck in Aldean, sharply. "You

don't deserve any help; but as the Anarchists are after you, Miss

Bellairs and I will give you some help."

"The Anarchists!" repeated Clara and Boldini. Both paled to the lips.

Without another word, they left the room. At last Aldean saw how it

was. Throughout he had been a trifle uneasy at the extreme and

unexpected smoothness with which things were progressing. He had not

looked for the process of disgorgement to be accomplished with so

little difficulty. Boldini's attitude had been subservient; Clara's

altogether too unreal to convince him. In the most abject coward there

is at least a modicum of obstinacy when at bay; and he could not

understand how a plunder thus arduously come by should be disgorged

with so little resistance. The mention of the word Anarchist explained

everything to him. The effect of it upon both miscreants left nothing

to the imagination. They were thoroughly scared. This, then, was what

they had dreaded; for this it was they had been ready to throw

everything by the board--for silence. Exposure to the police would

have revealed their immediate whereabouts to their fellows. That meant

pursuit speedy and relentless; and that, in its turn, meant death to

them both.

For some minutes after they had left neither Jim nor Olive spoke--he,

occupied with his ruminations; she, with her own innermost thoughts.

Jim broke the silence.

"Poor devils," he said, closing the door, "they have worse before them

than what they have just been through. And I think they know it. At

the hands of their brethren they are likely to meet with treatment a

good deal less clement. But what, may I ask, are you thinking of,

Mrs.--I mean, Miss Bellairs? You look most supremely happy."

"I am thinking of your friend and mine," said Olive.

CHAPTER III.

THE SANDAL-WOOD CHEST.

"Well, Lord Aldean," asked Olive, when she met her companion, hatted

and gloved, in the saloon next morning, "what next?"

"The next item on our programme is an official visit to Semberry,"

answered the young man, promptly. "A bit early for a call, perhaps;

but I'm the bird, you know, after the worm--the Major's the worm.

Won't do, you know, to let him and the Boldinis come together and

arrange their little plans. Union's always strength, isn't it, Miss

Bellairs?"

"Miss Bellairs!" repeated Olive, after him, with a long breath of

satisfaction; "how good that sounds! But about Major Semberry. For all

we know he may have seen the Boldinis last night."

Aldean wagged his head judiciously. "Not likely; they'd not seek him,

believe me. Now that we have Semberry's share of the loot, both

Boldini and his wife would rather be excused that interview. They are

too anxious about their little selves to bother him."

"Perhaps; at all events, let us hope so. Shall I come with you?"

"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind. Better let me tackle

Semberry in my own way. He won't climb down like Boldini, you know; in

fact, I don't anticipate he will be an easy customer to deal with at

all. He'll fight," said Aldean; "so shall I."

"I can't understand now why the Boldinis gave in so utterly."

"Had to--no choice for them," replied Jim promptly. "Case of devil and

the deep sea, you know. Let's assume we are the deep sea, and the

Anarchists and police and all of that ilk are the--well, the other

thing. You see, police would have meant publicity, and publicity would

have meant extinction for them, so far as this world is concerned; and

that, though probably a relief to them in the future state, was not

exactly what they sought at present."

"Could we have them arrested even now?" asked Olive.

"Well, perhaps, with an infinite amount of trouble and red-tapeism, we

might get the British Consul to help us so far; but that sort of thing

takes time, and they might bolt at any moment. I'm glad they had the

sense to climb down. It's all right now. We have the money and the

confession. They are no use to us any longer."

"Yes, we have the circular notes; and they, I suppose, are safe," said

Miss Bellairs, reflecting. "But that cheque, Lord Aldean--Boldini

might stop it by telegram."

"He'll only tumble back into the pit if he does," said Aldean,

decisively; "but I won't trust him any more than you do. Before I see

Semberry, I'll drop in at a bank I know here, and ask them to cash the

cheque."

"They won't cash so large a cheque without inquiry, surely?"

"That's just the point; if not, the banker'll have to wire to the

Crédit Lyonnais in Paris, and we'll soon know if Boldini's been up to

hanky-panky. That's the worst of playing a game like this with a

rascal," added Aldean, musingly; "he's always got an ace somewhere."

"We must watch his sleeve," laughed Olive. "Well, Lord Aldean, off you

go to Major Semberry, and I'll wait here till you return."

"Bringing my sheaves with me," said Jim, with a grin, and forthwith

departed.

Left alone, Olive sat down and wrote a long letter to Tui, in which

she praised Lord Aldean's common sense and willing help in the most

glowing terms. With joy she told Tui of her freedom; how Clara was

Boldini's, _alias_ Carson's, true wife; and how everything had gone

off so much more quietly than either of them had dared to hope.

Her letter ended with a casual inquiry after Mallow, and expressed a

hope that Tui had seen him. As the strength of a chain lies in its

weakest link, so the strength of Olive's letter lay in the pointedly

trifling allusion to Mallow. Small wonder if Tui smiled to herself at

the studied indifference of those few lines. Women understand those

things.

As Olive directed and stamped the envelope a knock came to the door,

and a smiling waiter entered with a letter addressed in lead pencil to

Miss Bellairs. She did not know the writing, but, when the man had

gone, she soon discovered that the letter was from Clara. There were

two hurriedly pencilled pages commencing abruptly, without date or

address, as follows:--

"I don't want you to think worse of me than you do, for the trouble I

brought on you was not of my making. I am--or, rather, I was--a tool

in the hands of the Anarchists, and against my will I was forced to

play what I know was a mean part. My father, Michael Trall, was a

gentleman, and at one time very rich. But he gambled away all his

money, and left my mother and myself to starve in London. I am now

thirty years of age, but never since an infant have I seen my father.

Neither have I heard of him; nor do I even know what he is like in

appearance. But I do know that he was a bad father and a bad husband,

who broke his wife's heart. My poor mother died when I was only two

years of age; and I might have been an outcast in the streets but that

my good uncle Jeremiah took charge of me. He had a little money, and

until I was twenty we lived on that. He was kind to me; but, alas! he

was the slave of drink--and, by indulgence in it, so weakened his will

and self-respect that he was the prey of any scoundrel who cared to

meddle with him. Dr. Drabble met him ten years ago or more, and,

seeing in him a useful tool, inveigled him into the toils of the

Anarchists. I tried to rescue my uncle as he had rescued me, but in

vain; so, to protect him, I also took the oath to the brotherhood. I

was forced to implicit obedience--I was ordered to Casterwell as your

servant, in order to spy upon you. I confess that, in one sense, I

went willingly--for I am Carlo's wife; and, as Dr. Drabble had

arranged that he was to marry you for the sake of the money, I was

jealous. I consented to keep quiet, only because I wanted the fifty

thousand pounds. I had made up my mind that Carlo and I should use it,

and once and for ever free ourselves from the brotherhood. You have

taken that hope from us; but I don't blame you even now. The money was

yours, and we swindled you. Carlo and I are going away, and you will

never see us or hear from us again. He is a poor, weak creature in

your eyes; but in mine he is the man I love, and I hope to be happy

with him in the future--if only we can escape the relentless hand of

the brotherhood. If I knew who killed Carson, I would tell you; but I

do not. I suspect Drabble, since he brought the bangle to Carlo; but

this is mere suspicion. Did you know the miserable life I have had,

you would pity me. I am sorry if I was rude last night. I do not wish

to be rude; but I am surrounded on all sides by terror and death, and

care not sometimes what I say or do. You have been very good to me;

and I thank you. Marry Mr. Mallow--I know he loves you--and forget

Carlo and the miserable woman, Clara Boldini.

"P.S.--When Carlo and I are safe and settled we intend to send for my

uncle to live with us. We will rescue him from the brotherhood. Carlo

is not a bad man--indeed, he is not. Weakness is his only fault. With

me he begs your pardon for his wickedness; but remember his character,

his oath, his helplessness, and forgive him.--C.B."

It was a sad letter, written by a woman who, surrounded by better

people and under good influence, might have remained true to the

better part of her nature. By the tides of life she had been swept to

the lee shore of disaster. Olive felt that in no small degree fate had

been against her, and in her generosity she was unwilling to be the

one to cast a stone at the unfortunate woman. On the contrary, her

impulse prompted her to help Clara with money and advice--to rescue

her and her weak husband from their danger, and to help them to their

first step on the way to a new life.

With such philanthropic intentions she started off to the Hotel du

Sud.

An hour later Aldean returned, followed by a man with a hand-barrow.

It was laden with a curious-looking chest of yellowish wood, bound

with brass. Dismissing his porter, Aldean had the box taken upstairs

and placed in a corner of the salon. He was disappointed that Olive

should be absent when he returned with this trophy of his victory over

Semberry, but, to pass the time, he set to work to examine the chest's

contents. A thin brass key unlocked it, and Aldean was soon so deeply

interested in his search that he almost forgot the absence of his

fellow-worker. By the time he had reached the bottom of the trunk, the

floor of the room was strewn with wearing apparel of all kinds. The

chest was literally packed with garments of every colour and pattern

imaginable. Shooting-suits of rough home-spun; tropical garbs of white

boots, riding-breeches, high brown boots, shirts, scarves, collars,

under-wear--all more or less impregnated with the scent of the wood.

But amongst all these now useless articles not a scrap of writing.

Aldean was disappointed. He had fancied that a stray letter or a

journal, or even a card, might have been forthcoming to throw some

light on the owner's past. Yet he might have guessed that all evidence

likely to inculpate Semberry, or Drabble, or Mrs. Arne would have been

removed by one of them before the chest left London. Two out of the

three, at least, were old hands at obliterating tracks.

With an observant eye and a careful ear Aldean overhauled the box

outside and in. He rapped at the sides, pushing here and tugging

there; but, so far as he could see, there was no hollow space either

at the sides or below. The chest was plainly made of five thick slabs,

which sounded dead and dull when he tapped them. Then Aldean turned

his attention to the lid, which was clasped with two broad brass bands

dividing it into three equal spaces. These were carved in the

laborious Chinese way with impossible flowers and stiffly flying

birds.

"Rum thing," muttered Jim, shaking the lid. "Looks like an overgrown

glove-box." Round the lid ran a deep rim, fitting down on to the lower

portion of the box when locked; and, on examination of the inner side

of this, Aldean found a row of brass nails--ostensibly mere ornaments.

With infinite patience he pressed every one of the decorations hard.

He found that one behind the hasp yielded with difficulty to pressure.

Two other nails, one near each end of the lid, proved equally loose.

Jim pressed and pressed all three, until suddenly with a click the

whole inner skin of the lid fell down, and between this and the top

there proved to be a narrow space extending to all four sides. With

the lid fell a long blue envelope, sealed with a coat-of-arms in red

wax. "Clever dodge," said Jim, picking up the envelope and admiring

the workmanship which so skilfully concealed the space in the lid.

"But a chap could hide only thin things in it; there's no room for

anything else." He looked at the envelope. "The Rev. Manners Brock,

Casterwell," he read. "Jupiter! that's queer. Wonder what's inside?

feels like dozens of pages. 'Spose this is a letter from Carson,

senior, to his old friend. Wonder why Carson, junior, hid it so

carefully?"

While he was turning it over, his fingers itching to break the seal,

and see if the contents could in any way explain the mystery of

Carson's death, Olive came hurriedly into the room. Without stopping

to comment on the disordered floor, or the extraordinary figure of

Lord Aldean grovelling before the chest with the blue envelope in his

hand, she burst out into excited speech the moment she saw him.

"Lord Aldean, they have gone away--Clara and Boldini. They left the

hotel last night about nine o'clock!"

"I'm not astonished," replied Jim, getting on to his legs. "Where have

they gone to?"

"The people at the hotel couldn't tell me," said Olive, exasperated

somewhat at his calm reception of the news. "They paid their bill,

packed their things, and went off in a cab to the Central Station. A

porter wanted to go with them and look after their luggage, but Clara

would not allow him. They have gone!'

"Best thing they could do, Miss Bellairs. Dare say they are afraid of

the Anarchists tracking them here. Wonder where they have cleared to?"

"I went to the station to try and find out," said Olive,

disconsolately; "but, although I saw the stationmaster and described

the appearance, he could give no information. I believe they disguised

themselves."

"Well, it doesn't matter much," said Aldean, soothingly; "we have the

money and their confession. Let 'em go, if they want to."

"How did they get away without money? They said they had none."

"Another lie, I suppose," said Aldean, sagaciously; "must have had

some coin somewhere. Don't you bother, Miss Bellairs; we're done with

them--yes! and with Semberry too. Look here," and Aldean produced a

packet of papers from his inside pocket. "Here's the Major's

confession."

"Did he confess?" gasped Olive, taking the papers.

"Rather. What's more, he wrote out his confession, and I stood over

him until he did. There it is, signed by him, witnessed by me, and

giving a full account of the conspiracy from first to last."

"Wonderful! However did you manage it?"

"I threatened him with the War Office," replied Aldean, complacently;

"told him that Boldini had owned up; and let him see that I knew quite

enough to have him cashiered, if nothing else."

"Then he didn't show fight, as you expected?"

"Oh yes, he did. He blustered about his name and position. But I told

him I'd take 'em both from him if he didn't own up. In the end he did.

You have the gist of it in your hand. He'd have wrung my neck if I

hadn't told him I'd wring his if he tried that game. First-class

fighting man the Major."

"And what is all this?" asked Olive, with a glance at the sartorial

chaos.

"Oh, this is Carson's chest, which Semberry was bringing over to

Boldini. I made him give it to me; and for the last half hour I have

been hunting for papers and things to see if I could find out anything

of importance."

"And you have found nothing?"

"Yes; a secret hiding-place. Look at it, Miss Bellairs. Clever thing,

isn't it? Found it by chance. Only a letter in it addressed to Mr.

Brock."

Olive took the letter and read the inscription. "It's from Dr. Carson,

I suppose," she said, turning it over. "I wonder what's in it?"

"Don't know! Can't be anything about the murder if Carson, senior,

wrote it. If we are to believe Boldini and Semberry, the whole scheme

was invented by Drabble and this Madame Death-in-Life."

"And which of them killed poor Carson?"

"Ah!" Jim shook his head gravely. "That is just the one thing Semberry

could not tell me. He doesn't know."

CHAPTER IV.

"ANOTHER PORTION OF THE CONSPIRACY."

Olive and Aldean could not but confess themselves well satisfied with

the results of their journey. Their achievement had been very

tangible. Not only had they extracted from these prime movers of the

conspiracy a full and clearly-set-forth confession, but they were in a

position comfortably to contemplate repossession of the money itself.

In the space of two days they had done this, and, as they now sat at

luncheon, they could not refrain from mutual congratulation. The only

thing about which there was any doubt in their minds was the wisdom of

accepting from Boldini the cheque for thirty thousand pounds. In

truth, Aldean, now that the pair had flitted, blamed himself heartily

for having done so. He was a trifle young and inexperienced--more

particularly in the shady financial tactics, to be expected from

people such as he was dealing with--and, at the moment, it did not

occur to him that the risk he ran in taking Boldini's cheque was

considerable, seeing that there was really nothing to prevent the man

bolting right away. Certainly he had confessed that he had no money;

but Aldean realized now that either this obstacle had not proved

insurmountable or that it had not existed. Long habit had made him so

accustomed to look upon cheques as equivalent in value to the sum they

represented, he decided to dismiss the uncomfortable sensation that

was creeping over him, and to hope for the best. He said nothing more

about it to Olive.

"And now, Lord Aldean," said that young lady, joyfully, "we can return

home. You, no doubt, will be as glad as I to do that?"

"You can measure my pleasure by your own, Miss Bellairs; we are both

in the same galley, I think."

Olive blushed at this allusion to her feeling for Mallow, and thereby,

of course, only accentuated its truth.

"When shall we start?" she asked.

"To-night, by the 9.30 express," said Jim, promptly, "unless you want

to have another look round the city before you go."

"I would rather get back to Casterwell, Lord Aldean. Let us get away

to-night. There is nothing to detain us--except that cheque. What

about that?"

"Oh, that's all right, Miss Bellairs. I sent a wire through the bank

this morning to Paris. They'll have a reply this afternoon. But are

you sure you can bear the fatigue of another long journey so soon?"

"Oh yes; I'm quite recovered now."

"In that case, I'll drop in at Cook's and get the tickets. We'll

return in glory, bringing our sheaves with us. Mrs. Purcell shall

deliver an address in her best Johnsonese, and Tui shall oblige on the

piano with 'See the Conquering Heroine Comes."

"Oh no," protested Olive; "you have done the work. Tui shall hold to

the original text. But, seriously," she added, stretching out her

hand, which Jim grasped warmly, "I give you my best and most sincere

thanks, Lord Aldean, for the great kindness you have shown me. I shall

never, never forget your good humour and attention, and all your hard

work on my behalf."

"Oh, please, please don't, Miss Bellairs," protested Jim, flushing.

"Only too jolly glad things have turned out so well. Can't help being

sorry I didn't kick Boldini, though; I promised Tui I would, you

know."

"I am very glad you didn't. So abject a creature doesn't merit even a

kick from you. By the way, is Major Semberry returning to England?"

"What, to fall into the clutches of his Anarchistic friends? I think

not. He knows better than to do that. India's his goal. That's where

he's making for. Even Mrs. Arne can't reach him there. But what's the

use of bothering about any of them now? Let 'em all go to Jericho, or

any human rubbish-heap they fancy, for that matter. Will you come out

with me, Miss Bellairs, and see about the telegram and tickets?"

"No; I think I'll stay in and devote myself to Major Semberry's

confession."

"Oh, you'll enjoy that, I'm sure. It's like the concluding chapters of

a sensational novel. I'll leave you to read it, then, while I see

about these things."

After he had gone, Olive settled herself in a comfortable chair--that

is to say, as comfortable a chair as is to be had in that country--by

the window, and plunged eagerly into Semberry's confession. Jim having

promised that the statement should be kept strictly private, the Major

had not been at all half-hearted about it, but had set forth his

iniquities _in extenso_. Indeed, his vanity would seem to have led him

to make the most of his misdoings. As a human document, the confession

of Major Horace Semberry was well worth perusal. It ran somewhat after

this fashion:--

"I am one of those unfortunate devils who have extravagant tastes and

no money with which to gratify them. I was brought up extravagantly by

an extravagant father; went from an extravagant school into an

extravagant regiment; and have had my tastes so fostered by luxury

that it is absolute pain for me not to satisfy their cravings in every

way. I am always in debt, and never out of difficulties, and I would

willingly dispense with the necessaries of life if only I could

procure its luxuries. By nature I am not a bad man. It is the want of

money that has induced me to do many things I would not otherwise have

done. It led me from borrowing to swindling; but I have stopped short

at that. If I am accused of murder, I am wrongly accused. Angus Carson

was not killed by me. By whom he was killed I know no more than the

man in the moon. Four or five years ago, while on leave in London, I

met with Dr. Drabble. He is about as big a scoundrel as ever deserved

the gallows. He is, moreover, an Anarchist, and by means of his dupes

in society--of whom there are many--he contrives to mix with very good

people. To do him justice, he hates and despises them all, but 'for

the good of the cause'--words which are never off his lips--he feigns

an interest in those with money or position, solely that he may

recruit his infernal army of destroyers. Somebody once called Drabble

'a wrecker of humanity,' and the title fits him well enough, though it

by no means does justice to his devilish ingenuity and wickedness. Why

he should approach me with friendly advances I could not understand at

the time, but when I came to know him I learned the truth. When he

likes, Drabble is a fascinating man, and by finding out the weak spot

in people's characters he usually contrives to net them somehow or

other. He soon found out my weak spot--want of money--and insisted on

being my banker. Like a fool, I borrowed at first a little, then more

and more, until I was so deep in his debt that he had it in his power

to force me to leave the army. He was not wealthy himself, and I was

always puzzled to know how he came by his money. When I was completely

in his power he told me. He was an Anarchist, he said, and the money

he lent me was taken from the funds of the Brotherhood. To repay that

money and something more, he suggested that I should help him in a

scheme of his for obtaining a sum of fifty thousand pounds. This was

the story he told me:--It appeared that at Casterwell, where Drabble

was the parish doctor, there lived a young lady named Miss Bellairs,

who, by a family arrangement, was to marry one Angus Carson by name.

This man she had never seen. Miss Bellairs--as the doctor had

discovered in some way--was possessed of fifty thousand pounds. On her

marriage this money was to be paid over to Carson (her husband).

Drabble's scheme was this: He knew that I came from India, and was

returning there, hence the reason of his friendship. He proposed that

I should make the acquaintance of Dr. Carson and his son Angus, and,

when the latter came to England to marry Miss Bellairs, that I should

contrive to accompany him. I was to introduce Carson to Drabble, and

let him persuade the young man to join the Brotherhood, so that he

(when married) should hand over the money for their benefit. 'Become

intimate with Carson,' said Drabble, 'make yourself indispensable to

him, and when you bring him to England introduce him to me. I'll do

the rest.' Seeing that Drabble could easily have introduced himself

when the young man arrived at Casterwell, I naturally asked why he

wished to employ me as a go-between. To this he answered that it was

his desire Carson should join the Anarchists before seeing Miss

Bellairs; that is, before he went to Casterwell at all, as, were he to

fall in love with the girl, which, considering she was both pretty and

attractive, was more than probable, he might point-blank refuse to

join Drabble in his scheme for the regeneration of mankind. To make a

long story short, I agreed to take part in the conspiracy provided I

received twenty thousand pounds out of the fifty, but I swear solemnly

that neither at the first interview nor at any subsequent one with

Drabble, was there any mention of murder. I was to bring Carson home;

I was to introduce him to Drabble, and when his enthusiasm had been

roused sufficiently to induce him to hand over the fortune which he

would acquire by marriage, I was to receive twenty thousand pounds. Is

there any roguery in such a scheme?--I think not.

"Shortly after making this arrangement I returned to India, and for

some months I had to pay with hard work for my holiday. I was

compelled so to attend to my duties that I had no chance of seeing the

Carsons. However, I made inquiries, and learned that the doctor was a

recluse somewhere up in the Hills, and that he kept his son constantly

under his own eye--to educate him for Miss Bellairs, I presume. After

several disappointments, extending over twelve months, I obtained

leave of absence, and started out on a shooting expedition in the

neighbourhood of this modern hermit. As I made it my business to

become acquainted with him, it was not long before I attained my

object; how, there is no need for me to explain. I became very

friendly with Dr. Carson, also with his son, and in time the

friendship ripened to intimacy. I got on better with the doctor than

with Angus. The latter was a solemn prig, I thought, with the most

Puritanical ideas. Still I adapted myself to his humour, and I think

he liked me fairly well; but it was no easy task to break down his

stiff reserve. For two or three years I visited regularly the elder

Carson, until I became so old and so good a friend in his eyes that

one day he told me--what I already knew, of course--about Miss

Bellairs and her fortune. I suggested that, as Angus was still young,

the possession of so large a sum of money might lead him into

dissipation, and I further suggested the advisability of some one

accompanying him to England, so that there might be at least some

check upon him there. Dr. Carson approved of my idea, and when he

died, about a year afterwards, he made Angus promise that I should

accompany him to Europe. At once I wrote to Drabble and assured him of

my success, after which I left India for London with my charge. So far

all had gone well. Lord Aldean informs me that Mrs. Purcell wrote to

her sister a full description of Carson, of his looks and dress and

priggish conversation, and of the sacred bangle he wore on his right

wrist. I hated that bangle. It seemed to me effeminate and foolish.

But it would not come off, owing to Carson's swollen and diseased

hand, and he refused to have it removed. I had written to Drabble

about this hand being diseased, and, when the _Pharaoh_ arrived at

Brindisi, I found a letter from him containing the programme of the

plot. That letter I kept, and now attach to this confession, at Lord

Aldean's request. Drabble, from my description of the state of

Carson's hand, declared that an operation would be necessary, and

suggested that I should state to the young man that he (Drabble) was a

skilful surgeon, who would perform it. If Carson consented, I was to

take him to a house in Athelstane Place, and there introduce him to

Drabble as the surgeon. Drabble, on the excuse of the hand, engaged to

keep Carson there for some weeks, and hoped, by his own persuasions

and those of Mrs. Arne (another Anarchist), to inspire Carson with a

desire to benefit humanity. He and Mrs. Arne hoped to talk Carson into

a state of red-hot enthusiasm, so that he might take the oath to the

Brotherhood. Once he did so, and bound himself to this band of wild

fanatics, he would have to part either with his money or his life.

Drabble and I and Mrs. Arne were in great need of this money, but

there was no suggestion that the goose with the golden eggs should be

killed. I followed closely the directions in Drabble's letter. I

talked to Carson about the necessity of getting his hand cured, and

said that I knew a skilful surgeon called Mr. Francis Hain (the name

supplied to me by Drabble), who could cure it. Carson, whose hand gave

him pain, readily agreed to try the effect of an operation, and it was

arranged between us that I should take him to Mr. Hain's house on our

arrival. From Plymouth I wrote to Drabble advising him of this, and

when the _Pharaoh_ docked, I first took Carson and his luggage to the

rooms in Marquis Street, which I had already engaged, and afterwards

to Athelstane Place. The luggage, including the sandal-wood chest, was

left at my rooms, and with only a small portmanteau Carson arrived--at

night--at the so-called Hain's house. Mrs. Arne was the housekeeper,

Drabble the surgeon under the name of Hain, and all was highly

respectable. Carson had no suspicions; and when Drabble said that he

would have to remain in Athelstane Place for at least three weeks,

while his cure was being effected, he readily agreed to do so. He gave

me a letter to post to Miss Bellairs, telling her how through this

operation he was detained; but, of course; I destroyed this. I left

Carson in Athelstane Place, and I returned to my rooms in Marquis

Street. That was the last time that I saw the poor fellow alive.

"A day or so afterwards I was hurriedly summoned to the house in Soho

by Drabble and Mrs. Arne. With much agitation they declared that

Carson was dead--had been murdered. I asked with horror if they were

guilty. Both denied it in the strongest manner. Carson, they said, had

been left alone on the previous night, as they were both obliged to

attend to some Anarchistic business. When they returned they found him

dead. On examination, Drabble discovered that death had been caused by

a knitting-needle thrust into the man's heart. It had evidently been

taken from some wool-work of Mrs. Arne's, which had been left in the

drawing-room, where the body had been found. Mrs. Arne searched the

house, but could find no one; the doors were all closed, the windows

also. However, in Carson's bedroom she discovered his portmanteau open

and the contents tossed about, as though the murderer had been

searching for something. Both declared again that they did not know

who had killed Carson, and in the end--seeing that they had no reason

for murdering the man--I believed them.

"I thought the whole conspiracy was at an end. Not so Mrs. Arne or

Drabble. The doctor produced the bangle, which he had obtained by

cutting off Carson's hand at the wrist, and declared that Mrs. Arne's

nephew, Carlo Boldini, who greatly resembled Carson, could impersonate

the dead man, and wear the bangle. At first I refused; then, as I was

in desperate straits for money, I agreed. Carlo was called in, and

told that he was to represent a man called Angus Carson, wear the

bangle, and marry Olive Bellairs. That done he was to hand over the

money to Drabble and myself. Being already married to Clara Trall, he

declined at first to act the part; but his aunt forced him to do so in

the end. It was not till long after this that Carlo knew of the murder

of Carson at all.

"We dressed him in Carson's clothes, taken from the sandal-wood chest,

but afterwards, on reading the leader in the _Morning Planet_, we

changed these clothes for new ones, lest the scent should arouse

suspicion. The bracelet was placed upon his wrist, and I instructed

him in Carson's history, manner of speech, and action. It took me some

time to train him in; but at last he was turned out with so close a

resemblance in appearance and personality to Carson, that he might

well have been taken for the dead man's double.

"I then accompanied him to Caster----"

Just as Olive reached this part of the confession, Lord Aldean, very

red in the face, entered the room hurriedly.

"Here's a pretty kettle o' fish!" he cried, "Carson's cheque's no

good. I'm very much afraid we've lost that thirty thousand."

"Lost it!" cried Olive, starting up. "Is the money not then in Paris?"

"No; not to Boldini's credit, at all events. Bank have received a

reply to their wire, saying that the money was withdrawn a fortnight

ago, and the account closed. Not a cent has the beggar got at the

Crédit Lyonnais. The cheque is mere waste-paper. They either have the

money, with them, or have transferred it to the place they are bound

for. What a--what a fool I was! I might have known there was something

dicky up the brute's sleeve when he gave in so meekly. They didn't

mind dropping Semberry's share, but they were determined to stick to

their own. What an ass the devil must have thought me! I fear we shall

have a bit of a job to trace them now."

Here the presence of Olive must be held responsible for the string of

peculiar sounds proceeding from Aldean. They were comparable to

nothing, and cannot be expressed in type.

"Never mind," said Olive, soothingly. "At any rate, we return with

twenty thousand and the confessions. Half a loaf is better than none.

We have lost much, but, on the other hand, we have gained more than

I----"

A knock at the door interrupted her, and a waiter entered with a

telegram for Lord Aldean. It proved to be from Tui.

"Come back at once. Mallow in danger," read Aldean, blankly.

Olive turned grey, and literally dropped into her seat. "The

Anarchists!" she cried with a gasp. "Oh, Lord Aldean, we must go back

at once."

"But the thirty thousand pounds, Miss Bellairs?"

"What do thirty, forty, a hundred thousand pounds matter if Laurence

is in danger?" cried Olive, excitedly. "We must not lose an hour. God

grant we may not be too late."

"Amen to that," said Aldean, gloomily.

By ten o'clock that night they were on their way to London.

_THE FIFTH SCENE: IN LONDON_.

CHAPTER I.

"THE MISSING MAN."

Clothed, and in his right mind, Hiram Vraik sat in the bare room,

which he and his brother-tenant grandiloquently termed "The Office."

He was absolutely at a loss to account for his employer's

disappearance. For several days he had called regularly at Half-Moon

Street, only to be told as regularly that Mr. Mallow was still absent.

The porter of the chambers was not alarmed by Mr. Mallow's continued

failure to put in an appearance, as that young gentleman was most

irregular in his comings and goings. But Vraik's reasoning differed

from the porter's, perhaps because he knew more than the porter.

Mallow was involved with a dangerous gang of Anarchists; and it was

always possible, indeed probable, that some incautious speech or

misguided confidence might get him into trouble. The more Vraik

reflected on this possibility the stronger became his belief that Mr.

Mallow was now in difficulties--up to his neck in them.

"He'd hev tole that young lord chap if he'd bin goin' to stop away,"

said Vraik, stroking his newly-shaven chin; "but the lor' chap he tole

me to git Mr. Mallow's orders nex' day, so he don' know nothin', an'

he's gone arter the Major cove, as I foun' out by follerin' him to the

stashun. But Mr. Maller! here's a rum go."

Later on Vraik put things in this way before his partner, a

heavy-jowled, coarse-faced, military ramrod, who answered publicly to

the name of Serjeant Jorran, privately to the endearing appellation on

the part of Vraik of "m'pal."

"It's a rum go this, m'pal," said the little man, gravely; "an' I'm

blest if I knows what's come t'him."

"He may have gone abroad with Lord Aldean," suggested the sergeant.

"He ain't. I sawr the lor' chap orf at Victorier, an' he went with a

gal. No, m'pal, I'll lay any odds as them revolutionary busters hev

laid Mr. Maller by the heels."

"Why don't you find him, then?" said Jorran, tartly; "the job's in

your hands, and it's a paying one. If Mr. Maller doesn't turn up we'll

lose the money."

"I knows that, m'pal--none better; an' I'm looking for him proper. Mr.

Maller's bein' makin' free of that crib in Popl'r Street, an' I dessay

he's got onto trouble there."

"Can't you find out his whereabouts from some of these Anarchists?"

"I'm goin' this very minit to pump one of 'em," said Vraik, looking at

his watch; "a swipy ole cove called Trall. Mr. Maller, he interdooced

me to him, an' tole me t'look arter him. Th' cove's loose in the

shingle, so I may get somethin' out of him."

"Has this man Trall anything to do with the Poplar Street den?"

"He's shoe-black and bottle-washer there, I thinks," replied Vraik,

jumping up. "I'd like to fin' all about that crib, I would, an' put a

stop to their blowin's up. There'd be noospaper pars and lots of coin

in a job like that."

"It isn't a bad idea," said Jorran, reflectively; "keep your

weather-eye open, Vraik, and let me know when I can sail in to help."

Vraik winked and whistled through his teeth, after which pantomime he

swaggered into the street, conscious of an exceptionally smart

appearance. But he never promenaded the main thoroughfares. Publicity

was contrary to his principles of business. Like the rat he was, he

slunk through alleys and by-streets, down passages, and into

disreputable quarters, until he found himself in Poplar Street. Here

he strolled casually past No. 49, and took a stealthy survey of its

battered front. Then he dived into the squalid depths of Soho, to cut

the trail between himself and Poplar Street, and came to the surface

in the greasy little parlour of a public-house in Bloomsbury. Here

Jeremiah Trall, dissipated, but still gentlemanly of aspect, was

seated at an oilcloth-covered table with a glass of whisky before him.

He had arrived at his "cross-drop," and was in no very good humour

when his visitor sneaked into the dingy room.

"I have finished three glasses while waiting for you," said he, in a

complaining voice, "so you will have to pay. I have no money."

"Y'never have anything except a thirst," replied Vraik, sitting

carefully down on a horsehair sofa. "Lanlor', 'nother Scotch cole, for

this gentleman, and gin for me--smart as y'know how."

Provided with such refreshment, the two men came to business; that is,

Vraik did, for Trall's energies were in the main devoted to a dreamy

contemplation of the liquor before him.

"I'm glad you've turned up, Mr. Trall," said Vraik, raising his glass;

"here's m'respec's t'you. Now you an' me's got to tork. D'want t'make

money?"

"I should not mind," replied Trall, on whom the fourth glass was now

exerting its soothing influence. "How can I earn it?"

Vraik came to the point at once. "By tellin' me 'bout Mr. Maller,"

said he, bluntly.

The question had a paralyzing effect on Trall. He dropped his glass

and his jaw at the same time, turned a dingy yellow colour, and cast a

terrified glance round the four corners of the room.

"I--I--I do not know anything about Mr. Mallow," he gasped.

Vraik's eyes glittered, and he lifted a lean admonitory forefinger.

"Mr. Maller he interdooced us pals, an' he tol' you I was helpin' him

with this case as you knows of; so I arsks you agin, ole cove. Where's

Mr. Maller?"

"I--I don't know!"

Vraik still shook the warning finger. "Lyin' agin, an' at yr'age, I'm

ashamed of y'. I noo y' was an Anarchist, but not----

"Hush!" entreated Trall, with another glance round. "Some one may

hear!"

"Not they, ole cove! there ain't none of 'em about here."

"You don't know--you never know," moaned Trall, shaking and white.

"They hide everywhere--they see everything. They listen and punish."

"Lor'! t' 'ear y' tork one 'ud think this was Africay."

"It is worse much worse. There men fight openly; here the Brotherhood

stabs in the dark. Hush! Oh, hush!"

"Have they stabbed Mr. Maller in th' dark?"

"No; he is safe, quite safe!"

"Oh!" said Vraik, briskly; "y' know that much, do you? Now where is

he?"

"I don't know? don't ask me."

"Oh, won't I? but I will." Vraik bent across the table and spoke

rapidly in Trall's ear. "Mr. Maller is in that Poplar Street crib."

"No, no, he is not!" Trall shrank back.

"Ole cove, why d'y' lie? He is there. Y' knows it. If y' don't tell me

'bout him, blest if I don't have the perlice into that den."

"You--you would not dare----"

"I mightn't, but the peelers would. Lor'"--Vraik wriggled

himself--"jes' to think of the coppers raidin' that crib, an' you

bein' blown kite-high for splitting on yer pals. Wot a Sun'y School

picter!"

"I have told you nothing," moaned Trall, thoroughly terrified.

"Don't I know that?" snapped Vraik. "Ole cove, I knows enough 'bout

you an' them t'make y' tell m'all. If y' don't, I'll go strite to the

perlice an' 'ave a raid on yer den. Then I'll say 't was you rounded

on the lot."

Trall moaned again and wrung his hands. Drink and terrorism had

destroyed the man's brain and nerve. The mere suggestion that Vraik

would tell the police about the Soho house was enough for him. If a

raid were made there, and he were denounced as an informer his life

would be at the mercy of those who were truly merciless.

"Ave some more comfort," said Vraik, who was watching the beads of

perspiration roll off his victim's forehead, "then y' can tell me

'bout Maller."

More whisky was brought. Trall dispensed with all water now. He saw

that he was in a cleft stick, and since Vraik knew so much, the only

way to save himself was to tell him more. Moreover, Trall hated

Drabble, and--if he could do so with safety to himself--would with

pleasure ruin him. He stretched a trembling hand across the table.

"Swear you will keep my name out of the business," he said, looking

round again.

"I swear," said Vraik, promptly. "Bless y', I don't want t'arm y'. I

on'y wish t'save Mr. Maller, cos I won't git m' money paid if I don't.

Now where is he? Tell me strite."

"In that house--in Soho."

"Is he a prisoner, ole cove?"

"Yes; he said too much, so Drabble and Mrs. Arne had him locked up."

"Drabble and Mrs. Arne!" repeated Vraik. "Who's they?"

Trall shut up promptly. "Oh, you don't know so much if you don't know

who they are."

"Ho! that's it, is it?" squeaked the rascal, with a puckered forehead;

"now I jes' tell y', ole cove. I knows enough to mess up you and them

bomb-pitchin' cusses, so you speak strite. Who's Mrs. Arne an' t'other

chap?"

"Anarchists," faltered Trall. "But it's not necessary to talk about

them," he went on rapidly, "but about Mr. Mallow. He is a prisoner in

the Soho house."

"'Ow can I git im out?"

"You can't get him out except at the risk of your life," said Trall,

coldly.

Vraik twisted his lean body and winced. "I've on'y one life, not bein'

a cat," said he; "and I ain't goin' to chuck that away for Mr.

Maller's. But I'm agoin' to 'ave 'im out if I rip that blessed shanty

of yours from top to bottom."

"There is only one man who can help you, and that is Monsieur Rouge."

"Who's he? another of 'em? Wot's he like?"

"Tall and lean, pale, light----"

"Dressed in rummy blue bags? A furrin' cove! Ho, I've seed him goin'

t'yer rabbit 'ole. And 'ow can 'e 'elp me?"

Trall rose heavily. "Ask him, if you dare to. I'll tell him you want

to see him."

"Right y'are! He won't bring bustin' things with him?"

"No." Trall reflected. "Where's Lord Aldean?" he asked. "Mr. Mallow

talked of Lord Aldean."

"He's gone to the Continong. He'll be back soon."

"Then take Rouge to Lord Aldean. I don't think he'll deal with you."

"My h'eye, won't he?" spluttered the little man; "e've horty pride,

ain't it! oh, no! Well, jes' you fetch this cove along 'ere to-morrow

at this time. I knows where Lord Aldean lives, an' I'll take 'im

there."

"I'll tell Rouge. He shall meet you here to-morrow."

"No larks, min'!" said Vraik, sharply. "If 'e ain't 'ere, the perlice

'ull be at Soho, y'bet."

"Rouge shall come. But keep my name quiet."

"I'm dumb. Y'treat me strite, an' I'm yer pal. If y'don't--well,

y'know my game."

On this understanding the conference came to an end, and Trall rolled

off half terrified, half assured. If the Anarchists could be captured,

if his tormentor, Drabble, could be imprisoned, he would be free. "I

can join Clara and Carlo then," thought the poor sot, "and be happy

for the rest of my life. Ah! Michael had the head of the Tralls. If

only I had been like Michael." He heaved a sigh, and, finding sorrow

thirsty work, lurched into the nearest bar for another drink.

In the meantime Vraik took a dive into the depths, and wriggling

westward in his own slimy way, rose once more to the surface in the

respectable neighbourhood of Campden Hill. He knew that Lord Aldean

visited at the house there, and he had made up his mind that he would

see the occupants and get them to communicate to Lord Aldean Mallow's

peril. Confident in his new clothes, he stepped jauntily up to the

door, and rang the bell. It was answered by the footman, who

remembered his face from his previous visit.

By means of a very free use of Lord Aldean's name, in addition to some

capital lying, Vraik succeeded in introducing himself into the

presence of Mrs. Purcell and Tui. To them he told his story--that is

to say, as much of it as he deemed necessary to fetch back Lord Aldean

to London.

"Mr. Mallow in the power of those wretches!" cried Tui, tearfully.

"Oh, what will Olive say? What is to be done?"

"The officers of the law----" began Mrs. Purcell, when Vraik cut short

her stately periods.

"'Scuse me, lady," he said, "but if the peelers come in there'll be a

mess, there will; and Mr. Maller 'ull git the worst of it. Y'jes wire

the lor' chap to come back, an' I'll striten out the rest."

"Yes, yes," cried Tui, "let us wire to Lord Aldean at once."

"The matter shall receive my immediate attention," said Mrs. Purcell.

"And if this individual----"

"I'm orf, lady; but I'll come back an' see when the lor' chap 'ull be

here. It's dry work, this, tho', ain't it?"

After which speech Vraik retired with five shillings clinking in the

pockets of his new clothes. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Purcell sent off a

telegram of recall to Lord Aldean in Florence.

CHAPTER II.

"MONSIEUR ROUGE IS CONFIDENTIAL."

At breakfast, under his own roof-tree, Aldean reviewed the events and

incidents of the last six days. Without doubt, they had been fast and

furious. But, even qualified as it was by the news of Boldini's

trickery, his work had been largely successful--the more so,

considering that four days out of the six had been spent in

travelling. The telegram bringing such serious news of poor Mallow had

made it absolutely impossible to take any steps towards following the

Boldini pair. First and foremost, Mallow's position--whatever it might

prove to be--demanded his entire energies. On arrival the previous

evening, he had listened earnestly and anxiously to Mrs. Purcell's

majestic account of Vraik's visit. But all that her ponderous periods

succeeded in conveying to Aldean was the mere fact that Mallow was a

prisoner. He felt he must know more at once, and he there and then

despatched a wire to Vraik, which brought the little man to Campden

Hill in an incredibly short space of time. From him Aldean learned all

details, among them that Rouge had refused to move in the matter until

brought into personal communication with himself. He arranged with

Vraik to see Rouge the next morning between ten and eleven. He felt he

could do no more that night save comfort Olive with the assurance that

Mallow should be rescued at all costs. Moreover, for once in his life,

Aldean felt physically exhausted. He hoped much from the mysterious

Monsieur Rouge, though at first thought it was difficult to see how so

red a sans-culotte was going to help him. As a devoted Anarchist, it

was the duty, and no doubt the wish, of Rouge to keep Mallow in

prison, and prevent all attempt at rescue rather than assist towards

it. Yet Trall, who was plainly against the Brotherhood, had hinted

that Monsieur Rouge could, and would, play the part of a beneficent

_Deus ex machinâ_. The more he thought of it, the more puzzled Aldean

became at this dodge of Vraik's. He finished two pipes trying to solve

the problem, and concluded by hoping, as usual, for the best.

"Monsieur Rouge," announced Lord Aldean's valet, just as he was

filling a third pipe.

"All right; show him in." And Jim, standing with his back to the fire,

was face to face with his enigmatic visitor from the depths.

Monsieur Rouge, thin, sad-faced, and more colourless than ever, glided

into the room like an unquiet spectre. He saluted his host with grave

dignity. Aldean nodded, and when the door was closed pointed to a

chair.

"I am glad to see you," he said in French. "Sit down, please. Would

you like to eat, or drink, or smoke?"

"If Monsieur permits, no; I come to talk."

"About Mr. Mallow?"

"But certainly, Monsieur, about myself also. I discharge myself of a

mission in thus presenting myself."

Lord Aldean, who had not once taken his eyes off the white, haggard

face, nodded again, and sat down. With easy grace his visitor slipped

into a chair, and placed his peaked cap on the floor beside him. Then

he looked fixedly at the young Englishman, and waited to be

questioned. Evidently M. Rouge was a discreet personage, and not

inclined to venture in further than he could withdraw. Nothing of the

rash revolutionist about him.

"Did Vraik bring you here?" asked Aldean, settling himself.

"Assuredly, yes. He gave himself the trouble to lead me to the door.

But," Monsieur Rouge waved his hand, "he is gone. I dismissed him. It

is not for him to hear what I would say."

"What do you wish to say?"

"Monsieur, I would make you a confession; I would deliver myself of a

story. But that later. Let us concern ourselves with Mr. Mallow."

"By all means. Is Mr. Mallow safe?"

"Safe and well. But what would you?" Rouge spread out his hands and

shrugged. "He is in the power of Madame. She knows not mercy."

"Does she intend violence?" asked Aldean, hurriedly.

"But what can I say? As the votes go, so will Mr. Mallow be dealt with

by the Brotherhood. Attention, Monsieur. Your friend is brave, but

rash--oh, most terribly rash! He comes to Soho, and he tells Monsieur

the doctor and Madame that he knows of their wickedness about this

money, about this murder. Eh! they are afraid that he may tell too

much, these brave ones, and they call out 'Spy! spy!' Mr. Mallow

fights well, but he is conquered. Behold, Monsieur, your friend most

dear is a prisoner in a little room on the top of the house in Soho."

"Have they ill-treated him?"

"But no; it is not necessary. Monsieur, your friend eats and drinks

like one of the aristocrats. To-morrow night there is a great meeting

of us in the cellar--oh, a very great meeting! Mr. Mallow will be

taken down to be judged. All will be told; and if they say 'Kill!'

Monsieur will disappear."

"You don't mean they will murder him!" cried Aldean, aghast.

"First, they will murder him," replied Rouge, significantly;

"afterwards his body will disappear. We have chemists who do these

things. Mr. Mallow will be no more."

"But the police?"

"Eh! what is it that can be done by them? No body, no murder, no

trial. Madame and Monsieur the doctor they know well what to do. There

is no one else who has seen Mr. Mallow enter--no one. Trall can speak,

I can speak; but," with a shrug, "will he speak?"

"I hope so," said Jim, anxiously. "You came here to speak."

"Behold, Monsieur, I do so; and why? Figure to yourself the reason."

Rouge rose slowly from his chair. "I--I am no Anarchist."

"You--are--no--Anarchist?" repeated Aldean, stupefied.

"No, I am become one to destroy them. It is my vengeance."

"Vengeance, Monsieur Rouge?"

"That is not my name. I am Emile Durand, citizen of Paris, who devotes

himself to destroying those who would destroy the world. Ha! ha!

Superb, magnificent. Monsieur," with a sudden solemnity of tone, "I

avenge my wife and my child."

"Why, did the Anarchists kill----"

"Yes." Rouge covered his face, and dropped back into the chair,

sobbing. "Ah, yes, alas! My dear Sophie, my little child! the good

God was silent, and they died--died, and I--I still live."

Lord Aldean looked with pity on the frame of the man, shaken with the

violence of his grief. He succumbed to a veritable nerve-storm which

swept over him. He wept, he cried aloud, he rolled in his chair,

until, beaten and prostrate, he fell back limply.

"My poor fellow, I am sorry for you. Some wine----"

"No, no; Monsieur need not give himself the trouble. No wine." After a

time a faint colour came back to him. With an effort his muscles

reasserted themselves, and he pulled himself together. But he kept his

eyes fixedly on the floor, and spoke rapidly, though almost inaudibly.

"Monsieur, five years ago I was a chemist in Paris--Rue Flaubert--and,

my faith, what a charming shop! Sophie, my dear wife, was there, and

the little one, an adorable little one of four years. Ah, how I loved

them--how happy we were! Monsieur, that she-devil of a Madame

commanded that Paris should be terrorized by bombs. She wished for a

revolution. Close by my little shop a bomb was thrown one night. It

burst. Oh, most terrible name of names! Shall I ever forget the

bursting of that hell-bomb? It killed my Sophie and my dear little

Therese." His voice broke with a dry sob. "They were buried in the

ruins of our happy home. I lived; conceive to yourself, Monsieur, I

lived. Yes," his voice rose, "to destroy those who destroyed them."

Rouge flung up his arms with a theatrical gesture of despair, and

paced hurriedly to and fro. Aldean did not speak. He did not know what

to say in the face of such grief.

"Yes, Monsieur, I lived to plot vengeance. I was ill long, long. When

I was again myself; I was not myself--not Emile Durand, but Monsieur

Rouge, the Anarchist, as you see me now. I joined the Brotherhood, I

took the oath. I used my knowledge of chemistry to invent explosives.

I wormed myself into their confidence, their counsels, their secrets.

Now I am the friend of that she-devil. Figure to yourself, Monsieur,

the dear friend of Madame. I make the bombs; I place them. I work,

work, work--not for them, but for myself. They shall all die

to-morrow."

"Good Lord!" cried Aldean, in horror. "Do you intend, then, to blow

them up?"

With an insane light in his eyes Rouge turned on him.

"Monsieur seeks to know what I care not to tell. Holy blue! I know

when to be silent. To you I speak of Monsieur Mallow; to him I have

related the story of Emile Durand, and he knows that Emile Durand will

rescue him. But Rouge--ha ha!"--he broke into a peal of laughter not

good to hear, "he will not rescue Madame, or Monsieur the doctor. No,

no, not death in life for the innocent, but death in life for her. Ah!

ha! it will be a pretty sight."

Frankly speaking, after the first natural feeling of horror, Jim did

not care two straws if the Anarchists were blown to atoms or not. On

the whole, he considered that some such wholesale destruction might be

beneficial. It would assuredly rid the world of a lot of these

pestilential wretches, and frighten the others. Moreover, there was

something ironically just in their being hoist on their own petard.

"But about Monsieur Mallow?" he observed.

"I shall save him," replied Rouge. "He is in a little room on the top,

with a skylight window on the slope of the roof. In the next house I

have a room, with a little window, too, through which I can climb.

Behold, Monsieur, I take a rope, well strong, and to its end I fasten

a stone. I climb on the roof opposite to my window, and throw the stone

at the skylight on the slanting roof. Crash! It falls in, and Monsieur

Mallow will knot it to his bed. Then he will climb up, like the little

cat, along the slanting roof and round its corner, until he slips into

my window. Then I will lead him down the stairs to the door, to the

street. There you will be, Monsieur, and receive this unfortunate."

The plan of escape appealed to Aldean as simple and skilful and safe

enough. Forgetting their relative positions, he sprang to his feet,

and shook Rouge heartily by both hands.

"Thank you! thank you!" he cried. "Neither Mr. Mallow nor myself will

ever forget your kindness."

"Bah!" Rouge shrugged his shoulders. "It is nothing. What would you

have? Monsieur Mallow has been good to me. He has given me money and

kind words. No, Monsieur, I am no ingrate to permit one so beneficent

to perish. Death is for the evil, not for the good."

"Suppose his escape is discovered?"

"Only when it is too late for them," said Rouge, with a cruel smile.

"They will not care for Monsieur Mallow's escape. No, my faith!"

"But what of yourself?"

"That shall be as the good God designs. Ask me no more, Monsieur, but

be you in that street at eight o'clock to-morrow night. I will bring

your friend to your arms. I swear it! I, Emile Durand, by the head of

my Sophie, by my little Therese But when you have your friend, go

far--there will be danger."

"If we can ever repay you----"

"Repay me?" Rouge seized Aldean by the hand, and looked into his face

with earnest eyes. "Monsieur, have masses said for the repose of the

dear ones. It is all I ask, If the good Lord give me death in my

vengeance, buy a mass for the poor Emile Durand."

He sighed, dropped Aldean's hand, but still looked at him.

"I promise," said Jim, earnestly. "Masses shall be said for Sophie and

the little one; but I hope you will escape."

"It is as the good God wills," sighed Rouge, and walked to the door.

As he put on his peaked cap he looked back. "Not a word of this to a

soul," said he, hoarsely, "or your friend is lost."

"I understand."

"Good. At eight o'clock to-morrow night in the street of Poplaire.

There you shall see your friend, and my vengeance."

When the man glided out, Jim turned to the mantelpiece, and rested his

forehead on his clasped hands.

"Thank God!" he muttered. "Mallow will be saved. I must tell Olive."

CHAPTER III.

"A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE."

In the old-fashioned drama of mediæval complexion, the

prisoner--usually the hero of the play--was "haled to the deepest

dungeon beneath the castle moat." The Anarchists of Soho having

no castle and no moat, and having moreover other uses for their

cellar, so far improved upon this bygone fashion as to sky their

prisoners--when they had any. In the present instance Mallow was

perched in an attic on the top of the house. The window was overhead,

set in the slant of the roof, and the door was kept double-locked. A

safer or more isolated cell could not well have been devised. It was

impossible to reach the skylight even by standing on the bed; and it

would have been a difficult task to break down that four-inch door.

Had the prisoner even succeeded in boring through the walls, he could

scarcely hope to escape by dropping fifty feet on to the pavement; and

let him shout and kick as he would, no one--other than his gaoler--was

likely to hear him.

He was absolutely powerless; and his sole comfort lay in the thought

that Aldean was carrying on the campaign. When Jim returned he would

find that Mallow was missing, and would undoubtedly guess that he was

in the power of the Anarchists. If these latter did not kill him in

the meantime--as they might, in self-preservation--Aldean would surely

apply to the police and have the Soho house searched. Then freedom,

and Nemesis upon his enemies.

This was one hope, but there was yet another. Monsieur Rouge, who had

brought Mallow's food to him several times, had on one occasion thrown

off his revolutionary mask so far as to promise to aid the prisoner's

escape. And, although Mallow did not well see how he was to do

this--seeing that Rouge had not divulged his scheme,--there was

comfort in the thought that, if Aldean should fail, he might succeed.

So he resigned himself to the inevitable, and waited.

Since his imprisonment Drabble had not appeared, nor indeed had Mrs.

Arne; but on the sixth day, when Mallow was wondering what they were

thinking of doing with him, the lady herself came into his attic. She

re-locked the door, sat down on the one chair--which she placed so

that she faced Mallow sitting on the bed--and, with the most amiable

composure, signified that she wished to converse. The mere sight of

her infuriated Mallow, but the memory of his previous folly taught him

to control himself. He was as self-possessed as Madame herself.

"You are no doubt surprised to see me, Mr. Mallow," began Mrs. Arne,

in her unemotional tones; "but you will be less so when you hear what

I have to say."

"Nothing you could do would surprise me, Madame, after your daring to

shut me up in this illegal manner."

"Oh"--Madame shrugged--"everything we do in this house is illegal. The

Brotherhood is outside the so-called law, and against it. If there is

any one to blame, it is yourself. As a spy, you can hardly expect

mercy."

"I am not a spy."

"Then your interpretation of the word differs from mine. You came here

under the pretence of joining us, from conscientious motives; but your

real errand is to criminate myself and the doctor in the murder of

this man Carson. Your intentions were dangerous to our personal

safety; ergo, we lock you up! Can you blame us?"

"If the tiger has the tiger's nature who can blame him?" retorted

Mallow. "You killed Carson; I dare say you will not hesitate to murder

me."

"As to yourself," said Madame, smoothly, "we will speak of that later.

But you are wrong about Mr. Carson; I did not kill him, neither did

Drabble."

"I find it difficult to believe that. You and Drabble--he under the

name of Hain--rented the house in which the man met his death. He was

stabbed with a knitting-needle. I have observed that you knit a great

deal, Madame."

"True; but I confine my needles to their proper use. The doctor and I

left Mr. Carson alone in the house; when we returned he was dead. Who

murdered him I know no more than you--or the police," finished Madame,

with a sneer.

"Your explanation is too diaphanous to be convincing."

"I did not come here to convince you," said Mrs. Arne, dryly, "but to

inform you that we intend to give you a chance to save your life."

"Save my life?" echoed Mallow (he could not repress a slight tremor).

"Your meaning has been murder, then?"

"We never use that word; but call it so if you will. In three nights

from now there is called a meeting of the Brotherhood in the cellar of

this house. You will be brought down to take the oath."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we--remove you," said Madame, in silky tones. "Take the oath and

you go free, for you can break it only at the imminent risk of your

life. A hundred eyes will be always on you, a hundred feet will dog

your steps. One rash word, one hint to the police about our affairs,

and you die."

"You dare not kill me."

Madame laughed.

"Put that to the test if you will by refusing the oath," said she,

indifferently. "For myself, I think you better dead. It is the

doctor's wish that you have this chance."

"I suppose you know the risk you run? My friends will search

diligently for me."

"No doubt. But they will not come here. No one saw you enter this

house. If your friends are clever enough to trace you to this place

they will find nothing. We have chemists who can convert your dead

body into nothing more tangible than gas. You will vanish into thin

air. We have arranged all that."

"You are a fiend."

"I am Madame Death-in-Life. You know why I am called so? No? Because

those in authority live on my sufferance. I have but to lift a finger

and they die. Monsieur Rouge, whom you have seen, is something more

than a chemist. He invents explosives. He designs bombs."

Mallow thought of the explosion in Paris, when the wife and child of

Emile Durand were killed by the lifting of Madame's finger, and he

drew comfort from the recollection. A man with such wrongs would

surely rescue him, even at the eleventh hour.

The thought gave him courage to listen to the woman.

"Well, whether you kill me or not the fifty thousand pounds are gone,"

said he, rather spitefully. "All your schemes have come to nothing."

"All our schemes are not ended," said Mrs. Arne, rising. "I see your

friend Lord Aldean has not yet got back the money."

"How do you know that?"

"I know that he is in Florence trying to force my nephew into giving

back the money which is ours."

"Your nephew! The false Carson!"

"Yes. Carlo Boldini is his real name. He is a fool if he thinks to

escape with that money from me. But that reptile, his wife, is to

blame for all that."

"How dare you use such language towards Mrs. Carson?" cried Mallow,

indignantly.

"I am speaking of Clara Trall, my nephew's real wife. Miss Bellairs is

not that."

"What--what do you----"

"I should advise you to take the oath, Mr. Mallow, and you may yet

live to marry Miss Bellairs. Otherwise----" She shrugged, and opened

the door.

Mallow tried to detain her, but she drew her dress gently from his

grasp, and with a sudden dart was outside. Before he could fling

himself after her the door was slammed to and locked.

The last communication of Madame was skilfully made. It left Mallow in

a storm of mingled joy and grief.

For the next two days he thought and thought over his terrible

position, and contrived a hundred ways to escape without having the

resolution to attempt one. On the third day, at five o'clock, Rouge

brought up his food. Mallow--who had almost given up hope of seeing

him again--sprang forward with an exclamation of delight. Rouge laid a

lean finger on his lips.

"Hush!" he whispered, glancing at the door, "we may be overheard.

To-night you will be brought to the meeting at ten o'clock. Is it not

so?"

"Yes, yes!" said Mallow. "Madame told me. But you will help----"

"Hush! No word, Monsieur. To-night at eight I will throw a stone at

the window above. It will fall inside here, and a cord will be tied to

it. Fasten the cord to your bed, and climb up it. Get through the

window, and climb on the cord, round the corner of the roof; then

slide down the slope. The cord will lead you to my window. I shall be

there."

"Thank you! Thank you! But the noise--the falling stone--is it not

dangerous?"

"No! no! We shall all be down in the cellar. The meeting begins at

eight o'clock. They expect me to bring you at nine. But then,

Monsieur, you will be free. Milord will await you in the street."

"Lord Aldean! Does he know, then?"

+++233/247

"He knows all. Hush, Monsieur, be careful to fasten the rope well. If

it slips, and you roll off the roof into the street, you are dead."

"I will be careful. How can I thank you----"

"Hush! no word!" Monsieur Rouge again laid his finger on his lips, and

slipped silently out of the room.

Mallow was in darkness, for, lest he should fire the house, he was not

permitted a light. But he cared little for that. His heart beat high

at the prospect of escape, even in so perilous a way. He shook his

bed, and found that the feet were clamped to the floor. All the

better; it would hold the rope fast. Overhead the skylight was black

in the night, and Mallow heard the raindrops rattle like small shot on

the pane. Up through that black square was his sole way of escape,

with the risk of death if he made a false step. But his courage was

high, and his nerve did not fail him.

Never had the hours seemed so long. The chimes of a near church marked

them at century distances, as it seemed, to the strained ears of the

prisoner. He ate heartily of the food Rouge had brought, but the wine

he left untouched. He would need a cool head and a clear brain. Down

below the wild beasts were, no doubt, creeping into their jungle. He

pictured them slinking through alley and by-street in the rainy,

stormy night: unclean prowlers menacing humanity. In the depths

of the earth they would scheme the destruction of the dwellers

thereon--innocent men and women, little children, even the kindly

beasts of the earth. All! all would be gloated over by those now

stealing to their wicked hole. Mallow was as brave as a lion, and he

burned with rage as he thought of those demons below.

At last eight o'clock clanged loudly in the night air. Then a dead

silence. Mallow could hear his heart thump furiously. Still no stone

fell, and he clasped his hands in nervous dread lest, after all, Rouge

might have deceived him. What if the man were in truth an Anarchist?

what if his promised deliverance were not fulfilled? suppose--crash!

smash! and a heavy body shot like a meteor through the window amid a

rain of splintered glass.

"The rope! Thank God!"

With feverish hands he felt in the darkness for the stone, and found

it. As he gripped, the rope shook away more glass. He listened for a

moment to hear if the noise had attracted attention. All was quiet.

Joyfully and hopefully he groped for the bed and drew in the rope

until it was taut. At this end of it was prison, at the other liberty

and Olive. Mallow bound it in tight knots to the iron framework of the

bed. He felt these over and over again to make sure they would not

slip. His life depended upon his care; and he anxiously tugged and

strained until he poured with perspiration.

At last the task was complete. He ran his hand along the rope. It was

taut as a bobstay--but at best it was but a frail bridge to safety.

Yet it was his only one. Going to the door, he listened. Again

silence. Taking off his shoes and socks, so that his bare feet might

cling to the slates, Mallow sprang on the rope and swung himself

upward. The rain, spurting in through the window, splattered on his

upturned face; a piece of glass, loosened by the swing of the rope,

fell and cut him; but the man set his teeth and climbed hand over hand

to freedom. At last his head emerged through the skylight. He saw the

dark and stormy sky spitting rain, and the light of the city

glimmering through the mist. Luckily the skylight was large enough.

Clinging tightly to the rope, Mallow thrust his shoulders against the

glass. It smashed, splintered, broke in a hundred fragments. He was

through in the fresh air, on the roof of a house fifty and more feet

from the pavement. With desperate courage he clung to the frail rope,

and lay flat on the wet slates, his toes digging into them to relieve

the strain on the cord. The blood surged and gushed in his head, and

he feared he would roll off insensible. Below was the abyss of the

street, above the sloping wet slates at an acute angle, and, over all,

the tearing, sweeping drench of the rain driven before the gusts of

wind.

Then a new terror gripped his heart. The edge of the rope lay amongst

the sharp angles of the glass. It might fray through, and he would be

dashed over the parapet of the house to swing like a spider at the end

of a thread. For a moment or so he lay flat in his soaked clothes,

prone on the slant. Then, with a violent effort, he drew up his knees,

and clawed his way along the rope. His trousers were cut to ribbons;

his nails torn, hand and foot; and a piece of glass had cut one of his

feet severely. But he was too excited to feel any pain. Slowly, but

surely, he drew himself along the slates, ever ascending to the summit

of the roof. There was no moon to help him; only a flurry of flying

clouds and the steady thresh of the rain. It seemed a century, until

he put out one hand and felt the ledge. With renewed courage he lifted

himself over this, cutting his knees with the rough slates as he did

so. The next moment he was safe from the abyss, and sliding carefully

down the slant to a leaden gutter between two houses.

"Hush!" whispered a voice. "Hold to the rope, Monsieur; give me your

hand."

Mallow gave a gasp of joy and relief as Rouge hauled him, wet and

exhausted, through the window. He would have fallen, but that the

man kept him upright by main force, and carried him through the

candle-lighted room out on to the landing. How he got down the stairs

he never knew. In the grip of Rouge he seemed to be falling, falling,

falling into eternal darkness. Then he must have fainted for the

moment. When he came to he was in a hansom, his head lying on Aldean's

shoulder, and Aldean holding him with a grip of iron.

"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" he heard Aldean say as in a dream. "And

you, Rouge--how can I thank you?"

"Adieu, Monsieur!" said a far-away voice. "Forget not the prayer for

Sophie and the little Therèse."

CHAPTER IV.

"THE ISHMAELS OF HUMANITY."

At the head of a bare deal table, set on a dais at one end of the

cellar, stood Madame Death-in-Life. This subterranean place of

congress comprised the whole area of the building. Excavations had

been made, indeed, extending some way below the street. These were

bricked in with stones, rough whitewashed. The low roof was actually

the concrete floor of the basement. It was supported by pillars and

arches. Entrance and exit were effected through a trapdoor with a

movable ladder. There were neither chairs nor benches. The Brothers

stood huddled together like sheep in a pen before the daïs--the

tribune of their infernal parliament. The lanterns slung at intervals

along the wall shed their faint gleam only to make obscurity more

obscure. It was curious to note on the faces of these men--faces

shaven and unshaven, fierce and dreamy, bearded and haggard--one

common expression of determination. The flash of fanaticism was in the

eye of every one of them. Some of well-nigh each European nation were

present here; and their spokeswoman addressed them, first in one

language, and then in another. She was no longer the icicle. She was

the zealot. She made herself felt solely by means of the sense of

conviction which consumed her by the right of imaginary wrong. She

communicated her feelings to those about her. She dominated them by

sheer force of her own enthusiasm. She renounced, she denounced, she

exhorted. "Our ruler is our enemy," she declared. "We Anarchists are

without rulers. We fight against all the usurpers of power--against

those who wish to usurp it. Our enemy is the landowner who keeps the

land for himself, who makes the peasant work for his advantage. Our

enemy is the manufacturer who fills his factory with slaves. Our enemy

is the State, be it Anarchical, Oligarchical, or Democratic. Its

official and staff of officers, magistrates, police-spies--all these

are our enemies. Our enemy is every thought of authority, call it God

or the devil, in whose name the priests have so long ruled the people.

Our enemy is the law which oppresses the weak by the strong to the

justification and apotheosis of crime. But if the landowners, the

manufacturers, the heads of the State, the priests, and the law are

our enemies, we are theirs, and we boldly oppose them. We will

reconquer the land and the factories, we will annihilate the State,

under whatever name it may be concealed, we will regain our freedom in

spite of priest and law. We despise all legal means. They are the

negations of our rights. We want no so-called universal suffrage,

since we cannot get away from our own personal sovereignty. We cannot

and will not make ourselves accomplices in the crimes committed by our

so-called representatives. We will remain our own masters, and he

amongst us who strives to become a chief or leader is a traitor to our

cause. Our work it is to conquer and defend common property, and to

overthrow governments by whatever name they may be called. To do this

we must work, we must invent, we must sacrifice. Brains, money,

labour, lives--let all go for the attainment of our end. And I have a

thought--a great and glorious thought, a master-thought, which, if put

to execution, will give us victory." For the first time she threw out

her hands, and shouted, "Air-ships! that is my thought. Conceive to

yourselves, brothers, the value of this. It is superb--magnificent.

There are men of genius amongst you. Get you to work, then, with all

your powers. Think, strive, experiment; dedicate yourselves to the

fulfilment of this great project. Succeed. You shall have money, time,

help--what you will, but succeed. This is no idle dream, I say. It is

the vision of my faith. I see it now before me. It rises from the

ground, it soars over the earth, it poises like a vulture o'er the

cities. Death--death--death it deals around. Unassailable,

unapproachable, ever victorious, our engine or right. Let this be your

task, comrades, and France with her armies, and England with her

navies, are puny and powerless against us. The dreams of to-day are

the truths of to-morrow. Have we not proof of it? The steam-engine,

the telegraph, the phonograph, the telephone--all these were but

dreams, once. To-day they are with us. Again I say, work, toil, beat

your brains, make the great secret ours; solve the mighty problem of

the air, and make us victors over the kingdoms of the oppressors!"

Madame sat down. One after another the men leaped up on to the daïs,

each in his own tongue striving to give vent to the frenzy she had

raised within him. They discussed the subject hotly. The problem of

aërial navigation had plainly caught their fancy. Then up spake Dr.

Drabble.

"Dreams," he said; "yes, brothers, at present these are but dreams.

But they are dreams which it is for us to make realities. Brothers,

I bring no inventive powers to this task. But I bring you the sinews

of war. I bring money--money amply sufficient for our present

needs--fifty thousand pounds. A million and more of francs, a million

of marks, a million of lire, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I

give it to you--all to you--all to the Brotherhood."

A roar of applause from the crowd, then a dead silence, at the words

that followed. They were as a douche of cold water on red-hot iron.

"But there are difficulties," he said calmly, "not wholly

unsurmountable. A brother has this money, gained through a scheme of

mine--of Madame here. To-night that money should have been with us.

Alas, it is not." Drabble then paused to give due effect to his next

words. They came with a hiss. "The brother who has that money is a

traitor."

No outcry this time, no openly expressed disapprobation, only a low

deadly murmur of hatred and contempt. Every face expressed loathing

for the traitor. Every hand itched to be at his throat. The wild

beasts seemed to crouch for the spring.

"The traitor's name is Carlo Boldini," said the doctor. "Remember that

name, that you may engrave it on his tomb."

"My nephew this man," cried Madame, with a cruel smile. "My nephew

whom I devote to death. I spit on the traitor. I stamp him under my

foot. To betray the great and glorious cause of humanity--robber,

beast, one lower than the brutes. Here, you always-to-be-trusted

comrades of Germany, the cause has been by my nephew--most vile of

creatures--betrayed. When you beside him stand, kill. Brothers of

France, the fraternity call upon you to execute the vengeance.

Understand you the horror of betrayal? Children of Robespierre, I

delegate to you the task of giving him the death. Down with the

traitor. Death to him--death."

"Death," "death," "death"--the word echoed in all languages through

the cellar. Every one present, man or woman, doomed Carlo Boldini to

death from that moment. His aunt smiled approval. She would have slain

him herself for the cause.

"Brothers"--the doctor was on his feet again--"the traitor, with a

woman, has fled to Italy--to Florence. He has been followed. Our

brother who has watched him there reports that he and his wife have

escaped in disguise to Genoa. Our brother still follows. The traitor

has taken ship for South America, with the money so hardly won. On

that ship our brother watches him. Wherever he goes the eye of the

Brotherhood marks him. Fear not! Vengeance shall blot him out from

amidst the humanity he has so basely betrayed. My comrades, you

volunteer to punish this traitor and the woman Clara Trall."

Before any one could speak, Jeremiah, haggard-faced, with terror in

his eyes, broke through the throng and flung himself on his knees.

"No, no!" he implored, with shaking voice; "not Clara, not my little

girl. Spare----"

"Remove him," cried a dozen voices; and a dozen hands clutched the

wretched creature and forced him to his feet. Weeping and imploring,

he was dragged mercilessly to the further end of the cellar. The

Juggernaut of Anarchy had rolled over his heart, and crushed it

without extorting a sigh or a glance from its fierce worshippers. With

terrible composure two men were then selected to hunt down Boldini and

recover the money and punish the traitor. Money and instructions were

given to these trackers, and they were bidden to return with their

task completed. Without a word the pair slipped through the crowd,

through the trapdoor, and went out into the world to pick up the trail

of the victims. From that moment Boldini, flying over the seas though

he was, stood doomed. There was something devilish in the menacing

silence in which the hunters departed to run down their prey.

"My brothers," said Madame slowly, "I have a secret to disclose. When

this money comes back to us, we go to Switzerland--to Geneva--there to

work out our great invention. Here the police have heard of the

Brotherhood. There is danger. Some day the tyrants will send their

dogs here to drive us from this refuge. We are ready for their coming.

Our brother Rouge has prepared this cellar for their reception. Here,

under this floor," she pointed downwards, "there is a mine formed of a

new explosive, the invention of brother Rouge. We stand now on a

volcano. Behind me," she turned to the wall at her back, "behold this

button. It communicates with the mine by electricity. One touch, and

all who are here would be destroyed, the house would be destroyed, and

the street would be torn up. This is the work of brother Rouge."

A murmur of approval followed. Some of the weaker creatures looked

down to the concrete floor, as though their gaze could pierce to the

deadly mine beneath, and shuddered. But the rest smiled grimly. No one

made comment of any kind.

Madame continued, "Rouge, my brothers, declares that he will sacrifice

himself for the glorious cause. When these dogs come here they will

not find us. We shall be in Switzerland, with wealth, and brave hearts

working out our scheme for the benefit of the slaves of humanity. The

police will explore the house, they will descend to this cellar. Here,

where I stand, they will find our brother smiling at his prey. He will

speak. He will proclaim our glorious mission. He will doom them to die

for it. One touch, and our enemies are as dust. Rouge dies indeed, but

his glorious memory will live in our hearts. Brothers! salute the name

of Rouge!"

The Anarchists shouted exultantly, and the name of Rouge, with words

of approval, flew from lip to lip. They did not pity him, they did not

lament his coming fate, but they lifted up their voices and saluted

the mention of his name all-glorious. There was not one man or woman

present who would not do the same if bidden. "To save humanity, my

brothers, we must die. Sacrifice a hundred lives, so that one despot

may fall from his throne. Over our graves the happy world of the

future will live, and those who have won freedom by our death will

strew those graves with flowers everlasting. To the glory of the

cause, shout, my brothers, shout--and, if needs be, die."

Drabble glanced at his watch, turned a significant look on Madame, and

spoke. "To-night, brothers, a neophyte will take the oath to aid us.

He is a gentleman, clever but rash. He entered our house to spy. He

learned our secrets, and, should he go abroad, much harm may be done.

Madame says kill him. I say not so. If he refuse the oath, then let

him die. If he take it, I say let him live. It is for us to win all we

can to our Brotherhood, so that we may be strong. This man can aid us.

Therefore, let us keep him if we can. Rouge brings him here in a few

minutes, and according to his wisdom shall he be dealt with."

There was an interval for rest. The meeting broke up into chattering

groups. Madame passed swiftly to the end of the cellar, where the

unfortunate Trall still moaned over his niece. With a look of

contempt, the woman stirred him with her foot.

"Rise," she said sternly. Slowly he got on his feet, a dishevelled,

tumbled object, and muttered something about Clara. "You fool!" said

Madame. "Is that all you have learned with us? To value your own

miserable life or that of any other man or woman? When we take the

oath we surrender our lives, to be saved or lost for the good of the

cause. Clara has proved false. She must die. Nothing can save her."

The wretched man sobbed. "Have mercy," he said. "Oh, have mercy."

"It is no question of mercy, but of necessity. You are not fit to be

here. This is no place for tears. Leave the house, I say. When you are

wanted you shall be sent for."

"Madame----"

"Go," said Mrs. Arne, sharply. "Have I to speak twice?"

Trall's head dropped on his breast in utter despair, and, without a

word, he slouched through the throng and up the trapdoor. As he went

out, he passed Rouge about to descend. Rouge was alone, grave,

colourless, composed. As he dropped down, the Brotherhood saluted him

with a volley of applause.

"Where is the prisoner?" called out Madame from the daïs.

"He will be brought down by me shortly, Madame," said Rouge; "but I

have come to make a communication to the society. First, I must make

all safe."

So saying, he removed the ladder, and laid it flat on the ground. Then

he took up his position in the corner directly under the trapdoor,

and leaned lightly against the wall. To right and left the crowd

parted, so that Madame and Drabble saw him as down a long lane. A

lantern overhead shed a heavy yellow light on his pallid face, and he

looked as a ghost in the shadows. The Brotherhood was uneasy, not at

his action, for he was a much trusted member, but on account of his

reference to making all safe. Even Mrs. Arne seemed anxious.

"Rouge," she cried, "what is the matter?"

"I propose to tell you, Madame," he replied in a loud, clear voice.

"Listen, all of you, to what I say. You know me as Rouge, the trusted

brother of the society. Five years ago in Paris I was known as Emile

Durand."

They looked at one another. Madame, with a premonition that something

was wrong, half rose from her chair, and Drabble leaned forward

anxiously. In dead silence every one hung upon the speech of Rouge. He

spoke in French, the tongue best understood of the greatest number.

"Emile Durand," continued Rouge in a calm, even voice, "was a chemist

in Paris, with a wife and child whom he dearly loved. He was a good

citizen, a good father, a fond husband. The good God bestowed on him

happiness, but his happiness was destroyed by death."

"What does this foolishness mean?"

"You will soon know, Madame," said Rouge. "It means that you and your

cursed assassins threw a bomb into my shop. You killed my wife and

child wickedly and cruelly. I lived but to avenge them. To-night I do

so."

"Seize him! drag him forward!" shouted Drabble.

"Stand back, murderer!" shrieked Rouge, his face scarlet with rage,

his eyes sparkling. "You see, I have my hand on the wall. I press it,

and the mine below is fired. You will be----"

A wail of terror rose from the crowd. They shrank back from the man.

Madame flung herself across the table, less afraid than furious.

"Seize him!" she cried madly. "Traitor! kill him; he lies! The button

which explodes the mine is at my back."

Drabble whipped out a revolver, and the crowd reeled forward, mad with

terror and anger.

"Who laid the mine?" cried Rouge, undaunted. "I did. The wire yonder

is a false one. The real communication is here, under my hand."

"Betrayed, betrayed!" yelled Madame, throwing herself down. "Shoot

him! kill him!"

Up swung Drabble's revolver to a level with Rouge's heart. The man

never flinched. "Shoot, and I fire the mine!" he roared. "Your lives

are in my hands, and I doom them. Make your peace with the God you

have offended, for you are to meet Him now."

With an oath, Drabble flung himself forward and fired, but a

terror-struck woman seized his arm, and the shot struck the roof. The

scene which ensued was indescribable. The wild beasts groaned and

howled, some, returning to the religion they had forgotten, fell on

their knees to pray. Drabble was overset and trodden underfoot. All

shrank back from their judge and executioner. Madame, on the daïs,

colourless and silent, stared at Rouge. She alone knew how lost all

was.

"O God," Rouge's voice rose clear and steady, "I am an instrument in

Thy hands to rid this earth of devils. I sacrifice myself to avenge my

wife and little one. To help humanity, I slay these demons. Judge them

in their wickedness."

His voice became inaudible in the turmoil. With uplifted hands, they

implored pity, besought mercy. And Rouge smiled.

"In the name of God," he shouted.

Madame rushed forward, stumbling over the terror-stricken men and

women. She dashed straight to the mark. Silent, deadly pale, her eyes

flaming, her hands extended to tear this man to pieces.

"Sophie, Therèse," cried Rouge, and, as Madame flung herself like a

tigress upon him, he pressed the button hard. The next moment he was

borne down by the woman.

The turmoil ceased. There was a dead silence--a terrible silence. And

the earth rocked and heaved, and opened her mouth to vomit fire, and

the jungle with its wild beasts of humanity hurtled through the air.

With a roar of thunder, belching flame and smoke, the house split from

cellar to attic. The end of the world had come for them all. And the

smoke of their torment went up to heaven.

Sophie and Therèse were avenged.

_THE SIXTH SCENE: AT CASTERWELL_.

CHAPTER I.

"AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL."

A week after the catastrophe at Soho, Olive and Laurence were seated

before a blazing fire in the Manor House drawing-room. Winter was upon

them in earnest, and the rose-garden of July lay covered thick with

snow, and the naked woods surrounding fought with the whistling blast.

Mallow had recovered from his cuts and scrapings, but his nerves were

still suffering from his recent experience. There was no doubt that

his system had received a severe shock, although he pluckily made

light of it. Even Mrs. Purcell, suddenly entering the room, made him

jump in his chair, and Olive laid her hand on his arm to soothe him.

The two had come together only within the last three days, and at

their first meeting Mallow had kissed her. That kiss was the outward

and visible sign of their engagement.

"My dears!" Mrs. Purcell, with voluminous skirts, sank into a chair a

wide-spreading billow. "My dears," she spoke _ex cathedrâ_, "I have

been considering your position. Olive, my dear, outside this house you

are still known as Mrs. Carson. Have you formed any plausible scheme

for the amelioration of this unpleasant state of affairs?"

"None, Mrs. Purcell. I suppose I must tell the truth."

"That seems to me an extreme view to take. The truth is so very

strange."

"Stranger than fiction," chimed in Mallow. "But if fact will poach on

the domain of fancy, our friends will have to enlarge their swallowing

capacity. I think it is best to be straightforward, Mrs. Purcell, and

make a clean breast of it, from the arrival of Carson, the impostor,

to the Soho explosion."

"I regret to say, Mr. Mallow, that I do not concur," said Mrs.

Purcell, shaking her turban. "Exclusive honesty is not the best

policy; and in this case it would only provide the daily journals with

sensational matter. I am averse, and I feel sure that you are also, to

our dear Olive's name being in the mouth of the multitude. There is no

need to be too explicit."

"Then how am I to account for my marriage being a false one?" asked

Olive.

"By telling the truth, my dear, within limitations. Say that the

marriage was a nominal one, contracted with Mr. Angus Carson in

obedience to the expressed wish of your father. Add, that during the

honeymoon you unfortunately--or, rather, fortunately--discovered that

Mr. Carson was the husband of another woman, and at once left him to

resume your own name. Finally, let it be known that Mr. Carson and his

true wife have left England together, and will return no more. Mr.

Carson, you understand, my love, not Signor Boldini."

"You would make no explanation?" demanded Mallow.

"Assuredly not. You are not bound to satisfy the curiosity of the

public. Though, indeed!" added Mrs. Purcell, "so much as I would have

you reveal, should be sufficient to answer all questions. Moreover, I

most earnestly advise Olive to accompany me abroad for a few months,

and at the end of that time to marry you, Mr. Mallow, before returning

to England. Then both of you can take up your position in this house

without giving cause for scandal or public animadversions. It is true

people may talk about our dear Olive's first marriage; but, for want

of details, which I advise you strongly to withhold, such idle chatter

will die of inanition."

There was good sound sense in what Mrs. Purcell said. A bare statement

of the facts which enabled Olive to reappear in society as Mrs. Mallow

was all that was necessary. And none was better calculated to

enunciate the facts than Mrs. Purcell, for one reason because she knew

every one in the county worth knowing; for another, because her very

prolixity made impressive what otherwise might have been looked upon

as a bald and feeble narrative. She would take care that the

sympathies of one and all were with her beloved Olive, and when, after

a sufficiently judicious absence, she returned to the Manor House the

wife of Laurence Mallow, her reception would be something more than

cordial.

"What a relief!" sighed Olive, when the old lady had departed in

triumph. "The whole thing has been quite a nightmare to me lately. I

am so thankful that Mrs. Purcell has found a way out of it."

"Mrs. Purcell is a sensible woman," said Mallow, warmly, "and her

opinion carries weight. What she says is perfectly true. You were so

unfortunate at first as to be placed in the position of marrying a man

who was not your choice, and, further, having married him, of

discovering the fact that he was already married. The sequel is, I

think, sufficiently obvious to the dullest of our neighbours. At all

events, there is the whole business in a nutshell, and it shall be for

Mrs. Purcell to present it to the county to crack. No word need be

said of any connection with these Anarchist people. Thank goodness,

they and their diabolical schemes have been very effectually disposed

of."

"Don't, Laurence!" Olive shivered and covered her face. "It is

terrible to think of how narrowly you escaped death."

"Dearest, a miss is as good as a mile. Thanks to that poor fellow

Rouge, I came through all right. My only regret is that the death of

Mrs. Arne, of Trall, and Drabble does away with any hope of our

learning the truth. The reason for poor Carson's murder will remain a

mystery."

"It is no mystery to me," cried Olive, petulantly. "Mrs. Arne killed

him."

"She denied it most solemnly."

"I dare say. Such a woman would deny anything."

"To gain her ends, she would," replied Mallow judiciously; "but, in

this case, she gained nothing by denial. I am inclined to think she

told me the truth. Until Carson proved recalcitrant it would have been

foolish for her to kill the goose with the golden eggs. Olive, whoever

killed Carson, the Anarchists didn't."

"Well, innocent or guilty, then the wickedness has put an end to them.

That man Rouge is a hero."

"I agree with you, but the world does not know of his heroism, and

never will. The police, the papers, are absolutely at a loss to

explain the explosion, and it is my intention that neither Jim nor I

should enlighten them. The _Morning Planet_ declares that the

Anarchists were experimenting with a new explosive. Such an

explanation is quite sufficient for the masses, the classes, and the

quidnunc asses."

"Will not Vraik say something?"

"What can he say, save that Rouge was one of the Brotherhood? It was

only to Jim and me that he revealed himself and his plans. No, Vraik

is safe enough. I shall pay him, and dismiss him."

"You won't go on with the case, then, Laurence?" Mallow shook his

head. "There are no clues," he said.

"Surely you forget; there are still two clues," cried Olive,

vivaciously. "What about the man who inquired at the P. and O.

Office?"

"Oh, no doubt he was an Anarchist sent by Drabble to learn when the

_Pharaoh_ would arrive--perhaps Drabble himself, in disguise. I dare

say, whoever he was, he was blown up with the rest of the gang. No

clue there, Olive."

"Then there is the packet Lord Aldean found in the sandal-wood chest."

"H'm," Mallow reflected, "there may be something in that. Of course,

it depends upon what the packet contains. Have you given it to Mr.

Brock?"

"No; I thought of doing so to-morrow. He has been too ill to see any

one lately."

"What! Is his accident so bad as that?"

"It is as bad as it can be," said Olive, emphatically. "He is old, and

not very strong. Besides, he would insist upon being brought back to

Casterwell; and the journey has shaken him. The nervous shock has

affected his heart, so the doctor says."

"That's bad. Poor old chap! Don't suppose he'll pull through."

"Come and see him with me to-morrow, Laurence."

"Yes, dear, with pleasure. We'll ask him about the packet. I dare say

he'll show us what is in it." Mallow rose and began to pace the room,

musing as he walked. "It might turn out valuable," he said, at length,

"from the care Carson took to conceal it it is evidently a document of

importance."

"I wonder why Mr. Carson did conceal it?"

"Because he mistrusted Semberry," replied Mallow, promptly. "Depend

upon it, Olive, Carson soon realized that the Major was a shifty

scamp, and hid his papers where there was no likelihood of their being

read. I see no other explanation for their concealment."

"I shall make a point of seeing Brock to-morrow," he said, looking out

of the window and whistling softly.

"Laurence," said Olive, who was still staring into the fire, "do you

think Dr. Drabble was blown up?"

"I'm certain of it. As Madame Death-in-Life's right-hand man, and

general adviser to these rascals, he would certainly not be absent

from so important a meeting. Yes, I think Drabble has received the

wage of his sins."

"Poor Mrs. Drabble!"

"Happy Mrs. Drabble, you mean. She has been rescued from the torment

of an unscrupulous bully. Besides, Drabble would have poisoned his

children's minds. He was in a fair way to ruining Margery." Olive rose

and came laughing across the room. "Margery has improved," she said,

with some amusement; "her Anarchistic mood has passed. She now

concerns herself chiefly with religion."

"At her age? Nonsense! There must be a limit even to her precocity."

"A child's religion, of course. Margery is older than her years, and

very, very clever, as you know. She now reads her Bible, goes to

church, and writes hymns on the model of Keble. I found her with

Keble's poems the other day."

"Poor child! her father has quite unsettled her mind. It's a lucky

thing for Margery, and for the rest of the family, that he's gone. I

suppose the news of his death will, have to be broken to his wife. But

if Mrs. Drabble is wise she will rejoice, not sorrow."

"Oh, Laurence! After all he was her husband, the father of her

children."

"And a nice blackguard in either capacity. Hullo, who's this tramp?"

Across the lawn stumbled a ragged Guy Fawkes, grotesque and unsteady.

He laboured in the snow like a liner rolling in a cross sea. At his

nearer approach he raised his head. Those at the window started, and

stared eagerly.

"Laurence! look! a black beard, a long beard; can it be----"

"Wait, wait," interrupted Mallow; and throwing open the French window,

he ran across the terrace down the steps. With a yelp the man

scrambled back, but stumbled full length on the slippery crust of

snow. Mallow gripped his shoulder as he dropped. "Who the devil are

you?" he said roughly.

"Mr. Mallow?" The ragged creature gave a howl of joy. "I'm--I'm

Trall!"

CHAPTER II.

"THE PENANCE OF MARGERY."

"I'm Trall," repeated the man, staggering to his feet.

He plucked off a false beard, thereby throwing into prominence the

haggardness of his face.

"Trall?" echoed Mallow, as though taking in the man's identity for the

first time. "Good God, I thought you were dead!" The man whimpered,

and fawned on Mallow as a whipped dog fawns on its master. "I'm alive;

I'm Trall," he reiterated. "I'm so glad it's you, Mr. Mallow. I

thought they were after me. But I'm Trall; you know me, don't you?

You'll save me, won't you? I'm afraid of them.'

"Whatever is the matter, Laurence?" called out Olive, at the window.

"Who is it?"

"It's all right, Olive; it's only Trall. I'll explain later; go inside

now.--Good God!" said Mallow, again looking at the wreck of humanity

before him. "Alive after all."

Jeremiah Trall nodded, and laughed vacantly. His life of terror and

strong drink, added now to want of food and sleep, had scattered the

poor creature's wits. He clung to Mallow like a child, reiterating his

prayer for protection, and ultimately sliding into an incoherent

gabble, disconnected though continuous. Seeing that nothing was to be

got out of him, in his present state, Mallow soothed him with repeated

assurances of his safety. He then led him round to the back of the

house, and had him supplied with food. In another half-hour the

wretched man was safely tucked in bed, with one of the men-servants to

watch over him. The food and warmth and sense of security relaxed his

nerves, and shortly he fell into a deep sleep. His relief had come

just in time.

Meanwhile Mallow returned to the drawing-room and explained the

situation. How Trall had escaped death he did not know, but he

understood the man's instinct had led him to seek the protection of

the only person who had treated him with kindness.

"We shall hear his story to-morrow," concluded Mallow; "and a queer

one it will be, unless I'm very much mistaken."

"Laurence, do you think this can be the man who inquired at the P. and

O. Office? He has a black beard."

"False, my dear; assumed no doubt to escape the Brotherhood, although,

seeing they are all dead, I can't understand what it is he fears. It

is quite possible he may be the man who inquired at the shipping

office; we shall know all about that in the morning. And Olive," added

Mallow, in lower tones, as the servant entered with the tea, "say

nothing about this for the present to Miss Ostergaard or the old

ladies. I'll tell Aldean myself later on."

Olive readily assented. She had no wish any of them should be alarmed.

When they, with Lord Aldean, came in to tea, no word was said about

Trall's strange arrival. Later on Mallow found an opportunity for

enlightening Jim.

"Jove!" said the startled Aldean. "How the dickens did he escape?"

"I can't say. Perhaps he wasn't at the meeting. Don't alarm the

ladies, Jim. We'll get it all out of him in the morning. He's worn-out

now, poor devil."

"Do you think he knows the truth about this Carson business?"

"It's possible, and probable. At all events, whatever he knows he'll

tell me."

But, in spite of all precautions, it was not long before Mrs. Purcell

knew all about it. Her maids were of more than ordinary loquacity. She

immediately declared her belief that they would all be murdered in

their beds, and communicated her fears to Miss Slarge. The two

ancients reappeared in the drawing-room in a nervous flutter, and, in

the end, if only to quieten them, Mallow thought it best to explain

matters fully. Contrary to his expectations, they were only the more

alarmed.

"An Anarchist," cried Miss Slarge, tremulously, "with a bomb!"

"I don't think he has a bomb," replied Mallow, gravely. "He is quite

harmless, Miss Slarge. He hasn't strength just now to kill a fly."

"Has he rebelled against established authority?" demanded Mrs.

Purcell. "Has he crime upon his soul?"

"His worst crime is hard drinking. I'll look after him, Mrs. Purcell.

Please give the servants no particulars."

Mrs. Purcell expressed a pious hope that the Manor House would be

still whole in the morning; but finally agreed that Mr. Mallow had

acted with his usual judgment, and was quite right to succour the

oppressed.