THE NOVITIATES
Bill thrust his hand into his pocket, felt something hard and sharp,
as his fingers closed over an uneven surface. When he brought his hand
forth he uttered a cry of amazement and consternation. In his hand was
a curiously shaped object, almost as big as his palm. It bore no
resemblance to a buckle, looking more like a large baggage tag, and it
was alive with flashing fires.
“Good God!” he gasped. “How did that come there?”
“I put it there,” said Mr. Marsh calmly. “I was in the study, and it
struck me that, if I walked out and ran into the hands of the coppers,
the presence of that incriminating evidence in my pocket might lead to
disastrous results, especially as I only went into the house to do you
a turn.”
“You seem to have been doing yourself a little good,” said Bill
grimly. “What would have happened to me if they’d found it in my
pocket?”
“Nothing. You’re an honest man, and if the worst had come to the worst
I should have appeared at the local police station, and made a
statement, exculpating--remember that word, which is both correct and
classy--exculpating you from any complicity. The lower orders would
describe my action as lunacy, but I not only know that I am an
altruist, but can pronounce the word. Can I see you in private?”
Bill hesitated. “Come in,” he said curtly, and took the visitor up to
his sitting-room.
“Never been in Bullott’s house before,” said Marsh, eyeing the
furnishings with a critical and approving eye. “For a man who has been
doing office work all his life, and has had none of the opportunities
for bribery and corruption which his brethren have, it is a little
remarkable that he’s got such a nice place. He’s a bachelor, of
course? If he were married he couldn’t afford this house. Personally,
I prefer the woman’s touch; and though Mrs. Hamshaw, my respected
landlady, lacks the essentials of refinement, she has connections with
the superior order, and her daughter, being one of the wealthy
classes, supplies many of her deficiencies.”
“I hate to interrupt your crackajack oration,” said Bill quietly,
“but, Marsh, what are you going to do about this interesting jewel?”
He had laid it on the table, and in the better light could admire the
exquisite workmanship of the old Egyptian craftsman who had fashioned
the lucky buckle of the goddess.
“It is exactly that matter I want to speak about,” said Mr. Marsh.
“May I smoke?”
He produced his gold cigarette case with a flourish, and, with another
flourish, opened it. Bill selected the cigarette he was offered, and
waited until the case went back to the burglar’s pocket.
“Now my suggestion is, that you take that buckle”--he spoke very
slowly and deliberately, punctuating every other word with a puff of
smoke--“and you place it in the vaults of your bank. If you have no
bank, or if, perchance, your bank has no vault, then I suggest you
should hand it to the Public Trustee.”
Bill frowned at him.
“When you have finished being comic----”
“I am not being comic at all, Mr. Holbrook,” said the other
innocently. “I am merely offering a suggestion as to the best way of
safeguarding Miss Elizabeth Carew’s property.”
“Miss Carew?”
Toby Marsh nodded.
“She isn’t aware of the fact that it is her property, and at the same
time Dr. Josh. Laffin isn’t aware that I’m aware that it is her
property. In fact, he believes that nobody in the wide world except
himself and one who shall be nameless--forgive my mysteriousness, but
that is my vice--has the least knowledge of that buckle’s existence.”
Bullott had come in; Bill heard him moving about alone.
“Marsh, do you mind if I discuss this matter with Bullott?” he asked.
“I very much mind,” was the prompt reply. “Bullott is a policeman, a
man whose mental qualities have never been completely tested. I
appreciate your difficulty, Mr. Holbrook, but Bullott isn’t going to
get you out.”
Bill weighed the buckle in his hand, and then, opening a drawer of his
desk, locked it away.
“What did you do with the paper?” asked the amazing burglar. “The
paper it was wrapped in when I put it in your pocket? I tore it from a
book in the safe, and I’d like to see it.”
Bill put his hand into his pocket, and felt a crumpled paper, which he
drew to the light. It was from an old, fine-lined exercise book, and
the writing was bold and irregular.
“Money is life. Without money life is misery. We have only one life to
live--every second should be consciously enjoyed. This is only
possible if you have money. Death is untroubled sleep. Life without
money is full of pain and irritation. There is no excuse for poverty.
Aim at millions. A man with a million can buy a new conscience. Moral
codes are made by monied people to keep us poor…”
“Who is the author of this thoroughly immoral philosophy?” asked
Bill, in surprise. “It doesn’t look like Laffin’s writing.”
Mr. Toby Marsh did not often smile, but his face was puckered now in a
grin of sheer enjoyment.
“To me it is as clear as the dome of St. Paul’s on a sunny day,” he
said.
Bullott was coming up the stairs, and would presently knock at the
door.
“I suppose you don’t want to see the inspector? I ask you this because
he’s liable to come up at any minute,” said Bill.
“I want to dwell in harmony with all men,” he said. “If he comes, I
shall treat him with respect. I’ve got nothing on Bullott. I’ll take
that paper, if you don’t mind.” He folded the torn page carefully,
and put it in his pocket.
“The question is whether Bullott has anything on you,” chuckled Bill,
as he heard the landlord’s knock, and opened the door to him.
Bullott comprehended the visitor in one glance.
“Good evening--brother,” he said, and there was such significance in
the word that Bill looked from one to the other.
There was a twinkle in Toby Marsh’s eye.
“We’re Sons of Ragousa, him and me,” he said. “Take my tip, Mr.
Holbrook--get in whilst the getting is cheap.”
“You’ve joined the Sons of Ragousa?”
“Proud Sons,” corrected Mr. Marsh soberly. “Yes, and the inspector
joined the same night.”
Bill looked from one to the other.
“But why?” he asked at last. “What is there about the Ragousas that
is so fascinating that it brings you two boys into the same camp?”
“The Proud Sons of Ragousa,” explained Toby, “started off with more
degrees than they had members. I believe there were forty in all. But
the ritual was a little bit too complicated, and the members difficult
to handle. To-day there are only five. There is the ordinary degree,
into which you’ll be initiated if you’re wise; there’s the High
Degree, which is a sort of district lodge; there’s the Grand Lodge
Degree; there’s the Twenty-Third; and over and above these, the priors
of the order--they’re the real swells, who give the law, fix the
ritual, distribute the argosies, and administer the order from top to
bottom. Now, you’ve got to remember this about the Ragousas--that,
when you’re clear of the Grand Lodge, you’re unknown! The Grand Lodge
doesn’t hold elections and say that this guy or that guy shall be a
member of the Twenty-Third Degree, or shall be promoted to a prior;
the men up above just notify the man they want, and automatically he
becomes one of them.”
“But surely,” interrupted Bill, “the Grand Lodge miss a familiar
face?”
Toby grinned mysteriously.
“Wait and see about that face stuff,” he said. “But you’ve put your
finger on the real mystery of the Ragousas. When you’re initiated at
the little lodge in Edgware Road, you may be in the presence of the
priors, you may be hobnobbing with members of the Twenty-Third Degree,
you may be meeting the Grand Prior himself and never know it. And the
worshipful master of the lodge wouldn’t know either. The Ragousas
accept discipline from above; there are no elections outside the lower
lodge, which chooses its own officers; and a fellow who’s been through
the chair passes back to the rank and file without any further
promotion, unless he receives a letter telling him he has been
appointed to one of the higher degrees, and giving instructions as to
where he must go and what he must do. If a man kicks, or wants some
other way of running the society, they throw him out. If he kicks
again, they get at him in such a way that they can’t be traced. He’ll
lose his job, or his landlord will throw him into the street without
notice. They’ve been known to buy a house over a man’s head in order
to get him out of his business. The discipline is fine! The kick comes
from the Twenty-Third Degree--and the Grand Master of the Twenty-Third
Degree is Joshua Laffin, Doctor of Medicines!”