"Do as he tells you," assented Dick, and then he left the room.
But he could not help hearing what took place between Riggleton and the servant.
"What do you mean by looking to him?" asked Riggleton angrily. "Any of your nonsense and it'll be right about face with you. I'm master here and no error. It was all a mistake about Faversham. Everything belongs to me. See? And look here, there's going to be a change here. I ain't no milksop, I can tell you, and the whole lot of you'll have to get a move on, or out you go. It isn't much time that I shall spend in this gloomy hole, but when I am here there'll be something doing. I shall get the place full of a jolly lot of girls, and Wendover Park won't be no mouldy church, norno bloomin' nunnery. You can bet your life on that. There'll be plenty of booze, and plenty of fun. Now then, get that fizz, and be quick about it."
The man's raucous, throaty voice reached him plainly, and every word seemed to scrape his bare nerves. He left the hall, and went out on the lawn where the sun shone, and where the pure spring air came to him like some healing balm.
This, then, was his cousin! This was the man who was the heir of old Charles Faversham's great wealth!
The whole situation mocked him. He believed he had done the thing that was right, and this was the result of it.
Like lightning his mind swept over his experiences, and again he wondered at all that had taken place. He tried to understand his strange experiences, but he could not. His thoughts were too confused; his brain refused to grasp and to co-ordinate what he could not help feeling were wonderful events.
He looked towards the great doorway, where, on the day of his coming to Wendover Park, he had seen that luminous figure which had so startled him. But there was nothing to be seen now. He wondered, as he had wondered a hundred times since, whether it was an objective reality, or only the result of a disordered imagination. There, in the bright sunlight, with Anthony Riggleton's raucous voice still grating on his ears, he could not believe it was the former. But if it were pure imagination, why—why——And again his mind fastened on the things which in spite of everything were beginning to revolutionise his life.
Then a thought startled him. He realised that a change had come over him. If he had met Tony Riggleton a few months before, neither the man's presence nor his language would have so disgusted him. He had writhed with anger when Riggleton had unfolded his plans to him, and yet a little while before he himself had contemplated a future which was not, in essence, so far removed from what his cousin had so coarsely expressed. Yes; he could not blind himself to the fact that since—since——But no, nothing was clear to him.
"I say, Faversham."
He turned and saw that Riggleton had joined him.
"Show me around a bit, will you? You see, the old man wouldn't have me here much, and—I should like to talk things over."
"I think, when Mr. Bidlake has got everything in order——"
"Oh, hang Bidlake! Besides, it's no use your talking about Bidlake. I've settled with him. You don't feel like talking, eh? Very well, let's go for a walk."
Almost instinctively Dick turned down the drive which led to the cottage where Beatrice Stanmore lived.
"Yes," reflected Riggleton, after they had walked some time in silence; "I suppose this kind of thing appeals to a poetical bloke like you seem to be. But it doesn't do for Tony R. I love a bit of life, I do. I always did. Did you ever hear that I ran away from school, and went off on my own when I was fifteen? Went to sea, I did, and knocked about the world. I had a rough time, too; that's why I've no polish now. But I know the value of money, I do, and you may bet your bottom dollar that I'll make things hum. Ah, here we are at the lodge gates."
Dick looked across a meadow, and saw old Hugh Stanmore's cottage. Even although it was some little distance away he could see the gaily coloured flowers in the garden and the pleasant quaintness of the cottage. But it was no longer his. In future it would belong to this clown by his side, and——
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a motor, and a few seconds later he caught sight of Lady Blanche Huntingford in her two-seater car. His heart gave a leap as he saw her put her foot on the clutch, while the car slowed down by his side.
The girl smiled into his face. "You've not forgotten your promise for to-morrow night, Mr. Faversham?" she said, and then, stopping the engine, she stepped lightly into the lane.
It seemed to Dick that nothing could have happened more unfortunately. Painfully aware as he was that Anthony Riggleton was standing by his side, and devouring every detail of the girl's appearance, he felt ashamed that she should see him. He wanted to run away, longed to disown all knowledge of the vulgar creature who accompanied him.
"No, I've not forgotten, Lady Blanche," he managed to say.
"And we may expect you?" There was eagerness in her voice, expectancy in the gladness of her bright eyes.
"I—I'm afraid not," he stammered.
The girl flashed a quick look upon him—a look partly of questioning, partly of disappointment. "Really, Mr. Faversham——" she protested, and then stopped. Perhaps she felt that something untoward had taken place.
"You see," he went on confusedly, "while I'd just love to come, things have happened since I saw you. I did not know——" and almost unconsciously he glanced towards Riggleton.
"I say, Faversham," and Riggleton put on his most fascinating smile, "introduce me to your lady friend, won't you? I don't think, when I've been in the neighbourhood before, that I've had the pleasure of meeting the young lady."
But Dick was silent. He simply could not speak of the fellow as his cousin. Evidently, too, Riggleton felt something of what was passing in Dick's mind; perhaps, too, he noticed the haughty glance which the girl gave him, for an angry flush mounted his cheeks, and his small eyes burnt with anger.
"Oh, you don't feel like it!" he exclaimed aloud."And no wonder. Well, miss, I'll tell you who I am. I'm the owner of this place, that's what I am. My name's Anthony Riggleton, and I'm what the lawyers call next-of-kin to old Charles Faversham. That's why I'm boss here. There's been a big mistake, that's what there's been, and Dick Faversham got here, not under false pretences—I don't say that—but because people thought I was dead. But I ain't dead by a long chalk. I'm jolly well alive, and I'm the heir. That's the situation, miss. I thought I'd tell you straight, seeing we may be neighbours. As for Dick here, of course he's jolly well disappointed. Not that I mayn't do the handsome thing by him, seeing he means to be reasonable. I may make him my steward, or I might make him an allowance. See?"
The girl made no response whatever. She listened in deadly silence to Riggleton, although the flush on her cheek showed that the man's words had excited her. Also she looked at Dick questioningly. She seemed to be demanding from him either an affirmation or a denial of what the man said. But Dick remained silent. Somehow he felt he could not speak.
"You don't seem to take me, miss," went on Riggleton, who might have been under the influence of the champagne he had been drinking, "but what I'm telling you is gospel truth. And it may interest you to know that I mean to paint this part of the country red. Oh, I'll shake things up, never fear. Might you be fond of hunting, and that kind of thing, miss? Because after the war I mean to go in for it strong."
Still Lady Blanche did not speak to him. The only reply she made was to get into her car and turn on the engine. "Good afternoon, Mr. Faversham," she said. "Then must I tell my father that you'll not be able to come to-morrow?"
"Perhaps you'd better," replied Dick, "but—I'll explain later."
Almost unconsciously he lifted his hat, while the car passed out of sight.
"By gosh!" exclaimed Riggleton, "she's a stunner, she is!—a regular stunner. Who is she?"
But Dick turned and hurried up the drive towardsthe house. He felt that he could no longer bear to be near the creature who had robbed him of everything worth living for.
"I say, you needn't be so huffy," cried Riggleton, who again joined him. "Why didn't you introduce me? I don't know when I've seen such a stunning bit of fluff. She looks regular top-hole stuff too! And hasn't she got a figure? And I say, Faversham, seeing that I said I was prepared to do the handsome by you, you might have done the correct thing. What! Oh, I suppose you were riled because I told her how things are. But the truth was bound to come out, man! Do you think I would be such a ninny as not to let her know I was the bloomin' owner of this show? Tell me, who is she?"
"Lady Blanche Huntingford."
He uttered the name curtly, savagely. He was angry with himself for having spoken at all.
"Whew! She's Lord Huntingford's daughter, is she?" and he gave a hoarse laugh. "Well, she's a beauty, she is—just a beauty!"
He laughed again in high good-humour, indeed, he seemed to be enjoying himself vastly.
"You are a deep one, Faversham, you are," he shouted, as he slapped Dick on the back. "Here was I calling you a fool for staying in this hole instead of going to London and gay Paree. But I see the reason now. Dining with her to-morrow night, were you? And it seems that I've spoilt your little game. Well, she's a bit of all right, that's what she is. A regular bit of all right. I don't know but after all I shall do the country squire touch, and make up to her. What are you looking like that for?"
For Dick's face was crimson with rage. The fellow's coarse vulgarity was driving him mad.
"Are you in love with her?" persisted Riggleton. "Is that it?"
Still Dick did not speak. He was walking rapidly towards the house—so rapidly that Riggleton had difficulty in keeping up with him.
"I say, don't be huffy," went on Tony. "I'm sorryif I didn't do the correct thing. I didn't mean anything wrong, and I'm not up to the ways of the swells. As I told you, I ran away from school, and got in with a rough set. That was why, when I came back here, Uncle Charlie cleared me out. But I don't believe in grudges, I don't, and I'm sorry if I've put your nose out. I can't say fairer than that, can I?"
Dick felt slightly ashamed of himself. He was beginning to understand Riggleton better now, and to appreciate his coarse kindness.
"It's all right, Riggleton," he said, "and no doubt you've done the natural thing. But—but I don't feel like talking."
"Of course you don't," said Tony, "and of course my coming is a regular knock-out blow to you. If it was me, I'd have—well, I don't know what I wouldn't have done. But I'm not such a bad chap after all. And look here, I meant what I said, and I'm prepared to do the handsome thing. You play fair with me, and I'll play fair with you. See? I shall make an unholy mess of things if I'm left alone, and if you like I'll keep you on here. You shall be my steward, and I'll make you a good allowance. Then you can stay here, and I'll give you my word of honour that I'll not try to cut you out with Lady Blanche, although she takes the fancy of yours truly more than any bit of fluff I've seen for years."
"For Heaven's sake, drop it!" cried Dick, exasperated.
"All right," laughed Tony. "I don't mind. There's plenty of girls to be had. Besides, she's not my sort. She's too high and mighty for me. Besides," and he laughed raucously, "it all comes back to me now. Once when I was here before, I nearly got into trouble with her. I was trespassing on her father's grounds, and she came along and saw me. She told me to clear out or she'd set the dogs on me. Good Lord! I'd forgotten all about it, and I never thought I'd see her again. So if you're gone on her, I'll give you a clear field, my boy. I can't say fairer than that, now can I?"
They had reached the house, and Dick again, almost unconsciously, looked at the great doorway. He dreaded,yet he almost longed to see the great haunting eyes of the figure which, whether imaginary or real, had become such a factor in his existence.
But there was nothing. No suggestion of the luminous form appeared.
Of course it was all a mad fancy—all the result of exciting and disturbing experiences.
"Riggleton," he said, when they had reached the library, "I want to be quiet; I want to think. You don't mind, do you? I'll explain presently."
"As you like, my boy. Think as much as you bloomin' well want to. I see the servant hasn't taken away the fizz, so I'll have another drink."
Dick threw himself on a chair and covered his face with his hands. He tried to think, tried to co-ordinate events, tried to understand the true bearings of the situation. But he could not. His mind was either a blank or it was filled with mad, confusing thoughts.
What should he do?
He thought he had decided on his course of action before Riggleton's advent, but now everything was a wild chaos; he seemed to be in a maelstrom. Should he accept Riggleton's offer? The fellow was a fool; there could be no doubt about that—a coarse-minded, vulgar, gullible fool. With careful treatment, he, Dick, could still remain master of Wendover Park; he could have all the money he wanted; he could—and a vista of probabilities opened up before him. He was sure he could play with his cousin as a cat plays with a mouse. He could get him in his power, and then he could do what he liked with him.
And why not?
Perhaps, perhaps——He turned towards Riggleton, who was pouring out a glass of champagne and humming a popular music-hall song. Yes; he could mould the fellow like clay; he could make him do anything—anything!
He was on the point of speaking, of starting a conversation which would naturally lead to the thing he had in his mind, but no words passed his lips. It seemed to him as though two distinct, two antagonistic forceswere in the room. Almost unconsciously he took Romanoff's telegram from his pocket, and as he did so, he felt as though the sender was by his side; but even while he thought of the man he remembered something else. He remembered the night when he had unfolded his plans to him, and when he had pointed to the paper which he had prepared for him.
Again he felt the grip of the hand upon his wrist, again he felt a presence which he could not explain—a presence which forbade him to sign away his liberty—his soul.
He thought, too, how immediately afterwards that guileless child Beatrice Stanmore had rushed into the room, and had told him that she had been impelled to come to him.
Suddenly a prayer came to his lips: "O God, help me! For Christ's sake, help me!"
It was strange, bewildering. He was not a praying man. He had not prayed for years, and yet the prayer, unbidden, almost unthought of, had come into his heart.
"Well, have you made up your mind?"
It was Tony Riggleton's voice, and he felt like a man wakened out of a trance.
"Yes."
"Good. You take me on, eh? We'll be pals, and you'll stay on here as my steward?"
"No."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I'm going to London."
"To London, eh? But when?"
"To-night."
"To-night! Well, I'm——But—but, all right. I'll drive you there in my car, and we'll make a night of it."
"No, thank you. Look here, Riggleton, I'm very much obliged to you, and I appreciate all you have said; but our paths must lie apart."
"Lie apart?" Tony's mind was a little confused. "You mean to say that you don't accept the allowance I'm willing to make you?"
"I mean that. I thank you very much, but I don't accept."
"But—but what are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Have you any money?"
"No. Yes, I have, though. I've a few pounds which I saved before I thought I—I was——"
"Old Uncle Charlie's heir," concluded Tony as Dick hesitated. "But what about the estate?"
"The lawyer must settle all that. I'm sorry I'm intruding here. I'll go and pack my things right away. Some day I'll repay you for the money I've spent while I've been here."
"Look here," and Tony came to Dick's side, "don't you be a fool. You just take things sensibly. Pay me money! Money, be blowed! You just——"
"No, thank you. I'll go now if you don't mind."
He left the room as he spoke, and a few minutes later he had packed a small suit-case. He returned to the room where Tony still remained.
"Good-bye, Riggleton; I'm off."
"But you—you're mad."
"I think I am. Good-bye."
"But where are you going?"
"To the station. If I make haste I shall catch the next train to London."
Riggleton looked at him in open-mouthed wonder. "Well, youarea fool!" he gasped.
Dick rushed out of the house without a word to the servants. He felt as though he dared not speak to them. Something in his heart—something which he could not explain—was telling him to fly, and to fly quickly.
When he reached the doorway he turned and looked. He wanted to see if—if——But there was nothing. The westering sun shed its bright rays not only on the house, but on the flowers which bloomed in glorious profusion; but there was no suggestion of anything beyond the ordinary to be seen.
"Of course Iama fool," he reflected; "perhaps I am mad," and then he again tried to understand the experiences which had so bewildered him. But he could not. All was confusion.
He hurried along the drive which led to the lodgenear which Beatrice Stanmore lived. He had a strange longing to see once more the home of the child who had come to him in the hour of his dire temptation.
When he had gone some distance he turned to have a last look at the house. Never had it seemed so fair; never as now did he realise what he was leaving. What a future he was giving up! What a life he was discarding! Yes; he had been a fool—an egregious fool! Oh, the folly of his actions!—the mad folly!
"Holloa, Mr. Faversham!"
He turned and saw Beatrice Stanmore.
"You are going away?"
"Yes; I'm going to London."
"And walking to the station? Why?"
"Because I've no conveyance."
The girl looked at him wonderingly. Questions seemed to hang upon her lips—questions which she dared not ask.
"I'm going away," he went on, "because nothing is mine. There's been a great mistake—and so I'm going away. Do you understand?"
She looked at him with childlike wonder. In years she was nearly a woman, but she was only a child in spirit.
"But surely you need not go and leave everything?" she queried.
"No; I need not go." He hardly knew what he was saying. He seemed like a man under a spell.
"Then what makes you go?"
"You," he replied. "Don't you remember? Good-bye."
He hurried on without another word. He felt he was going mad, even if he were not mad already. And yet he had a kind of consciousness that he was doing right.
"But I will come back some day," he said between his set teeth. "I'll not be beaten! Somehow—somehow I'll make my way. I'll conquer—yes, I'll conquer! At all hazards, I'll conquer!"
There was a grim determination in his heart as he set his face towards the unknown.
"Yes, Mr. Faversham; I see such a future before you as was never possible to any other Englishman."
The speaker was a man about fifty years of age, short, stout, well fed, seemingly prosperous. A smile played around his lips—-a smile which to a casual observer suggested a kindly, almost a childlike, innocence. He might have been interested in orphan schools, charity organisations, or any other philanthropic movement. His voice, too, was sympathetic and somewhat caressing, and his whole appearance spoke of a nature full of the milk of human kindness.
The two men were sitting in the corner of a smoking-room in a London club. A most respectable club it was, whose members were in the main comprised of financiers, prosperous merchants, and men of the upper middle classes. Money was writ large everywhere, while comfort, solid comfort, was proclaimed by the huge, softly cushioned chairs, the thickly piled carpets, and the glowing fires. Any stranger entering the club would have said that its members were composed of men who, having plenty of this world's goods, meant to enjoy the comforts which their gains justly entitled them to.
Dick Faversham, to whom the words were spoken, smiled, and the smile was not without incredulity and a sense of wonder.
"Yes," went on the speaker, "you smile; you say in your heart that I am a bad example of my theories;but one mustn't be deceived by appearances. You think, because I am fat and prosperous, that I take no interest in my fellow-creatures, that I do not dream dreams, see visions, eh? Is not that so?"
"Not at all," replied Dick; "but your views are so out of accord with all this," and he looked around the room as he spoke, "that I am naturally a bit puzzled."
"It is because I have accustomed myself to this, because I have seen inside the minds of rich men, and thus understand their prejudices and points of view, that I also see the other things. You have seen me in places different from this, my friend."
"Yes," replied Dick; "I have."
"Little as you have realised it," went on the other, "I have watched you for years. I have followed you in your career; I have seen your sympathies expand; I have been thrilled with your passion too. You did not suspect, my friend, three years ago, that you would be where you are to-day, eh?"
"No," assented Dick; "I didn't."
"You have thought much, learnt much, suffered much, seen much."
"Yes; I suppose so," and a wistful look came into his eyes, while his face suggested pain.
"It is said," went on the stout man, "that there is no missioner so ardent, so enthusiastic, as the new convert; but, as I have told you, you do not go far enough."
Dick was silent.
"You are spoken of by many as a man with advanced ideas, as one who has an intense passion for justice, as one, too, who has advanced daring plans for the world's betterment; but I, the fat old Englishman, the respectable millionaire, the man whom Governments have to consider—mark that—the man whom Governments have to consider and consult, tell you that your scheme, your plans are mere palliatives, mere surface things, mere sticking-plasters on the great, gaping sores of our times. That if all your ideas were carried out—yes, carried out to the full—you would not advance the cause of humanity one iota. In a few months the old anachronisms, the old abuses, would again prevail, while youwould be a back number, a byword, a fellow who played at reform because you neither had the vision to see the world's real needs nor the courage to attempt real reform. A back number, my dear sir, and a mere play-actor to boot."
The fat man watched the flush on Dick's face as he spoke, and was apparently gratified.
"You see," he went on, still watching Dick's face closely, "I am getting on in life, and I have shed my illusions. I have my own philosophy of life, too. I do not believe that the reformer, that the man who lives to relieve the woes of others must of necessity be a monk, a Peter the Hermit, a Francis of Assisi. The labourer is worthy his hire; the great worker should have a great reward. Why should honour, riches, fall into the lap of kings who do nothing, of an aristocracy which is no aristocracy? Youth is ambitious as well as altruistic. Thus ambitions should be ministered unto, realised. Shakespeare was only a shallow parrot, when he wrote the words, 'Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.' The man who flings away ambition becomes a pulpy reed. He lacks driving force, lacks elemental passions. If one opposes primitive instincts, one is doomed to failure."
"Pardon me if I fail to see what you are driving at," interposed Dick.
"You'll see in a minute," asserted the other. "What I urge is this: the man who sets up a new kingdom should be a king. It is his right. The man who sees a new earth, a more glorious earth, an earth where justice and right abound, and where neither poverty nor discontent is known—I say the man who sees that new earth and brings it to pass should rule over it as king. He should have, not the pomp and empty pageantry of a paltry hereditary king, but the honour, the power, the riches of the true king."
The man paused as if he expected Dick to reply, but no reply was forthcoming. Still, the stout man was evidently satisfied by his survey of Dick's face, and he noted the flash of his eyes.
"That is why, to come back to where we were afew minutes ago," he went on, "I see such a future for you as was never possible to any other Englishman. I see you, not only as the man who will revolutionise the life of this starved and corrupt country, not only as the man who will bring in a new era of prosperity and happiness for all who are citizens of the British Empire, but as the man who can enjoy such a position, such honours, such riches as no man ever enjoyed before. Do you follow me? The people who are redeemed will make haste to heap glory and honour upon their redeemer."
"History does not bear that out," was Dick's reply.
"No, and why, my friend? I will tell you. It is because the men who have aimed to be saviours have been fools. It is because they have been blind to the elemental facts of life. The first business of the saviour is not self-interest—I do not say that—but to regard his own welfare as essential to the welfare of others. The man who allows himself to be crucified is no true saviour, because by allowing it he renders himself powerless to save. No, no, I see you, not only as one who can be a great reformer, and as one who can strike death-blows at the hoary head of abuse, but as one who can lift himself into such fame and power as was never known before. The plaudits of the multitudes, the most glorious gifts of the world, the love of the loveliest women—all, all, and a thousand times more, can be yours. That is your future as I see it, my friend."
"Do you know what I think of you?" asked Dick, with a nervous laugh.
"It would be interesting to know," was the reply.
"That your imaginative gifts are greater than your logical powers."
The stout man laughed heartily. "I suppose I puzzle you," he replied. "You think it strange that I, the financier, the millionaire if you like, who eats well, drinks good wine, smokes good cigars, and who is a member of the most expensive clubs in London, should talk like this, eh? You think it strange that I, who two hours hence will be hobnobbing with financiers and Cabinet ministers, should be talking what some wouldcall rank treason with an advanced labour leader, eh? But do not judge by outward appearances, my friend; do not be misled by the world's opinions. It is not always the ascetic who feels most acutely or sympathises most intensely.
"As I told you, I have watched you for months—years. For a long time I did not trust you; I did not believe you were the man who could do what I saw needed doing. Even when I heard you talking to the masses of the people—yes, carrying them away with the passion of your words—I did not altogether believe in you. But at length I have come to see that you are the man for my money, and for the money of others."
Again he looked at Dick keenly.
"Ah, I astonish you, don't I? You have looked upon such as I as enemies to the race. You have not realised that there are dozens of millionaires in this city of millionaires who almost hate the money they have made, because they see no means whereby it can be used for the uplifting and salvation of the oppressed and downtrodden. They do not talk about it, yet so it is. I tell you frankly, I would at this moment give half—two-thirds—of all I possess if thereby I could carry out the dream of my life!"
The man spoke with passion and evident conviction. There was a tremor in his voice, and his form became almost rigid. His eyes, too, flashed with a strange light—a light that spoke almost of fanaticism.
"You already have in your mind what burns in mine like a raging furnace," he went on. "You see from afar what has become a fixed, settled conviction with me. You behold as a hazy vision what I have contemplated for a long time, until it is clearly outlined, thoroughly thought out. I will tell you what it is directly. And if that great heart of yours, if that fine quick mind of yours does not grasp it, assimilate it, and translate it into actuality, it will be one of the greatest disappointments of my life. I shall for evermore put myself down as a blind fool, and my faith in human nature will be lost for ever."
"Tell me what it is," and Dick's voice was tense with eagerness.
Months, years had passed since Dick had left Wendover Park, and both his life and thoughts had become revolutionised. Perhaps this was not altogether strange. His manner of life had been altered, his outlook altogether new.
Even now as he looked back over those fateful days he could not understand them. They seemed to him rather as some wild fantastic series of dreams than as sane and sober realities. Yet realities they were, even although they were a mystery to him. Often in his quiet hours he caught himself thinking of the figure of the woman in the smoke-room of the outward-bound ship, which no one but himself could see, while again and again he almost shivered as he felt himself sinking in the black, turbulent sea, while conflicting powers seemed to be struggling to possess him. Indeed, the wonder of that night never left him. The light which shone in the darkness, the luminous form above him, the great, yearning, pitying eyes which shone into his, and the arms outstretched to save.
Sometimes it was all visionary and unreal—so visionary was it that he could not believe in its reality, but at other times he could not doubt. It was all real—tremendously real. Especially was it so as he thought of those after days when he had fought the greatest battles of his life. Again and again he had seen himself in the library at Wendover while Romanoff stood beside him and told him of his plans; again and again had he recalled the moment when he took the pen in his hand to sign the paper, and had felt the grip on his wrist which had paralysed his hand.
Was it real, or was it imaginary?
"Suppose I had signed it?" he had often asked himself; "where should I be now? I should be a rich man—the owner of old Charles Faversham's huge fortune. Possibly I should have married Lady Blanche Huntingford and acted the part of the rich squire. But what would Romanoff have exacted of me? What would be my thoughts about Tony Riggleton?"
Yes; those were wonderful days, whether they were a dream or a reality, and sometimes he called himself afool for not following the Count's advice, while at others he shuddered to think of the dangers from which he had escaped.
He had never seen nor heard of Lady Blanche since. On his arrival in London he had written an explanatory letter, and had expressed the hope that she would not lose interest in him. But he had received no reply. Evidently she regarded him as a kind of an impostor, with whom she could no further associate herself.
Neither had he ever seen or heard of Romanoff. This dark, sinister man had passed away into the shadows, and only remained a strange memory, a peculiar influence in his life.
Of Tony Riggleton he had heard various stories, all of which were of the same nature. Tony had been true to the programme he had marked out. He had filled Wendover Park with a motley crowd of men and women, and the orgies there were the talk of the neighbourhood. He had also a flat in London where he had indulged in his peculiar tastes.
It was on hearing these stories that Dick had felt that he had acted the fool. He had become cynical, too, and laughed at the idea that virtue and honour were wise.
"If I had followed Romanoff's advice," he had said to himself, "I might have——" And repeatedly he had recounted what he might have done with the wealth which he had thought was his.
For many months Dick had a hard struggle to live. His few weeks of riches had unfitted him for the battle of life. Society was shaken to its foundations; the world was a maddening maze. Again and again he had offered himself for the Army—only to be rejected. He was conscious of no illness, but the doctors persistently turned him down.
Presently he drifted towards the industrial North of England and became employed in a huge factory where thousands of people worked. It was here that Dick's life underwent a great change. For the first time he found himself the daily, hourly companion of grimy-handed toilers.
This gave him a new vision of life; it placed new meanings on great problems; he was made to look at life from new angles. For the first time he felt the squalor, the ugliness of life. He lived in a grimy street, amidst grimy surroundings. He saw things as the working classes saw them, saw them with all their grey unloveliness, their numbing monotony.
Still ambitious, still determined to carve out a career, he felt oppressed by the ghastly atmosphere in which he found himself. He was now fast approaching thirty, and he found himself unable to adapt himself to his new conditions. He thought of all he had hoped to do and be, and now by some sport of fate he had become engulfed in this maelstrom of life.
Little by little the inwardness of it all appealed to him. He had to do with men and women who were drunken, foul-mouthed, depraved. What wonder that he himself was becoming coarsened every day! Things at which he would once have shuddered he now passed by with a shrug of his shoulders. How could the working classes be refined, how could they have exalted ideas amidst such surroundings?
He noticed the tremendous disparity between the moneyed and the working classes. The former were deliberately exploiting the great world convulsion, and the peculiar conditions caused thereby, to make huge profits. It was all wrong—utterly wrong. What was the worker, on whose labour everything depended? Mere means for swelling the capitalists' profits. Who cared about them? Politicians talked glibly about what they meant to do; but they did nothing.
Newspapers shrieked, and capitalists talked about the disloyalty of the working classes. How could men go on strike while the very existence of empire, civilisation, humanity hung in the balance? they asked. But what of their own disloyalty? What of those who held a pistol at the head of the Government, and threatened to disorganise the trade of the country and paralyse output, if they could not stuff their money-bags still fuller?
And so on, and on. His new environment changed him—changed his sympathies, his thoughts, his outlook.He thought of Tony Riggleton spending the money these people were making for him in wild orgies among loose men and women, and he became angry and bitter.
Little by little his superior education asserted itself. He found, too, that he had a remarkable aptitude for public speech. He discovered that he could sway huge multitudes by the burning fervour of his words. He was able to put into language what the people felt, and before long became a popular hero.
The world was in a state of flux; old ideas, old conceptions were swept aside as worn-out fallacies. What ten years before were regarded as madmen's dreams no longer appeared either unreasonable or quixotic. The forces of life had become fluid, and it was the toiler of the nation who was to decide into what channels the new movements were to flow.
And Dick became a doctrinaire, as well as a dreamer of a new heaven and a new earth. He became an ardent reader, too. He was surprised at the ease with which his mind grasped theories hitherto unknown to him, how he absorbed the spirit of unrest, and how he flung himself into the world's great fray.
"Faversham's our man," people said on every side. "He's got eddication, he's got a fair grip on things, and he can knock the masters to smithereens when it comes to argument and the gilt o' th' gab."
"But who is he?" asked others. "He's noan our sort. He was noan brought up a workin' man."
"Nay, but he's a workin' man naa. He's worked side by side with the best on us, and he knows how to put things. I tell thee, he mun go into Parlyment. He'll mak 'em sit up. He mun be our member."
This feeling became so strong that Dick was on two occasions selected to be one of deputations to the Prime Minister, and more than that, he was chosen to be the chief spokesman to state the workers' claims.
In all this, not only were his sympathies aroused, but his vanity was appealed to. It was very pleasant to feel himself emerging from obscurity; the roar of cheering which the mention of his name elicited became as sweet as the nectar of the gods to him.
Again he saw visions, and dreamt dreams. They were different from those of the old days, but they did a great deal to satisfy him. They told him of position, of power, of a place among the great ones of the world. Sometimes he was almost glad that Tony Riggleton inherited Charles Faversham's huge fortune. If he had retained it, and gained high position, that position would have been through the toil and brain of another. Now he would do everything by himself—unaided and alone.
More than once during the many stormy and excited meetings Dick had attended, he had seen a kindly, benevolent-looking man, whose face suggested the milk of human kindness. Dick rather wondered how he came there, and on asking his name was told that he was called John Brown, and that, although he did not directly belong to the working classes, he was in deep sympathy with them, and had more than once subscribed to their funds. Presently Dick became acquainted with Mr. Brown, and something like intimacy sprang up between them.
He found that Mr. Brown was a great admirer of his speeches, and more than once that gentleman had hinted that if he found any money difficulty in entering Parliament, he, John Brown, would see that the difficulty should be removed.
"I am almost ashamed of being something of a capitalist," he confided to Dick, "but, at any rate, I can use what money I have for the advance of the cause which is so dear to me."
Just before Dick was going to London the next time, he received a letter from Mr. Brown asking him to meet him at a well-known club. "I have certain things to say to you," he said, "certain propositions to make which I think will be worthy of your consideration."
On Dick's arrival in London he made certain inquiries about Mr. Brown, which, however, did not help him much. He was by no means a prominent character, he learnt, but he was believed by many to be a man of enormous wealth. He was told, moreover, that he was somewhat eccentric, and loved doing good by stealth.
It was therefore with aroused curiosity that Dickmade his way to the club in question. He was not yet quite sure of his man, and so he determined to listen carefully to what Mr. Brown had to say without committing himself. Before long he found himself deeply interested. The stout, benevolent-looking man was revealing himself in a new light, and Dick found himself listening with fast-beating heart.
"Yes; I will tell you what it is," said Mr. Brown. "I will make plain to you what I meant when I said that I see such a future before you as was never possible to any other Englishman."
Dick unconsciously drew his chair nearer the fire, while every nerve in his body became tense. He felt that the millionaire had not brought him here for mere pastime.
"Tell me," said Mr. Brown, "what your plans for the future are."
"Too hazy to outline," was Dick's reply.
"That's truer than you think, my friend—far truer than you think; that's why your position is so absurd. And yet you answer me falsely."
Dick gave the other a look that was almost angry.
"No, no, my friend," went on Mr. Brown; "do not mistake me. I do not accuse you of falsehood. You think you are speaking the truth. But you are not. In a way, your plans are defined. You mean to be Member of Parliament for Eastroyd. You mean to be the first Labour Member for that great working-class constituency. Already you have been approached by the various unions of the town, and you have been assured that you will be returned by a triumphant majority. And you've practically accepted, although you have persuaded yourself that you've not yet made up your mind. So far so good—or bad; but you are unsettled. There is something at the back of your mind that you can't explain. It doesn't satisfy you. Am I not speaking the truth?"
"Perhaps," assented Dick.
"And naturally, too. Oh, my young friend, I know—I know. I have been through it all. What is a Labour Member after all? Just one of a few others, who is submerged by the great so-called Liberal and Conservative Parties. What can he do? Speak nowand then when he's allowed to, beat the air, be listened to by a handful of his own supporters, and then forgotten. Consider the history of the Labour Party. What influence has it really had on the life of the nation? My friend, the government of the country is still in the hands of the upper and middle classes in spite of all you do and say."
"Pardon me," interrupted Dick, "but what are you driving at? What you say may be partly true, but at least the hope of the working classes, politically speaking, lies in the Labour Party."
"Moonshine, my friend—mere moonshine. The atmosphere of the British House of Commons stifles the aspiration of the Labour Members. One by one they are absorbed into the old orthodox parties, and nothing is done. You know it, too. That's why the thought of becoming a Labour Member is unsatisfying to you. You would never be a real power, and you would always be regarded as an outsider, and you would never touch the helm of affairs."
Dick was silent. After all, he was not a working man. He had social ambitions. He desired not only to be a prominent figure among the working classes; he wanted to be an equal of, a peer amongst the dominant forces of the world. He still remembered Lady Blanche Huntingford—as a Labour Member he would be outside her sphere.
"You see it, don't you?" persisted Mr. Brown.
"And if I do? What then?"
"Everything then, my friend. Your present plans would end in nothing. Not only would you fail to do anything real for the people, but you yourself would be stultified. A Labour Member! What is he?—a man who, socially, is patronised; who is recognised only on sufferance; who, if he marries, must marry a commoner, a woman of the people, with all her limitations. Oh, I know, I know. And meanwhile the working people still continue to be trodden underfoot, and who toil for what they can squeeze out of their employers—their social superiors. Yes, yes, you are impatient with me. You say I am a long time in getting to my point. Butbe patient, my friend; I will get there. I only want you to realise the truth."
"Then please get to your point," urged Dick a little impatiently.
"I will," replied Mr. John Brown, and he placed his chubby hand on Dick's knee. "Here is the fact, my friend: we live in a time when nothing is impossible. The world is in travail, in wild convulsions. The new channels of life are not made. All the forces of life are in a state of flux. Now is the time for the real leader, the strong man. The great proletariat is waiting for that leader, longing for him. The people are tired of the old worn pathways; they are waiting for the new kingdom, the new deliverer."
"You are still in the clouds," cried Dick. "Come down to the solid earth."
"I will, my friend. England is ripe for real reform, ripe for the new order. The open sores of the country cannot be healed by sticking-plasters. They must be cauterised; the cancers must be cut out. In one word—Revolution!"
Dick started to his feet, and took a hasty glance around the room. For a wonder, it was empty. They were alone.
"You are mad!" he cried.
"Of course I am," laughed Mr. Brown. "Every man is called mad who sees a new heaven and a new earth. But, my friend, I speak as an Englishman, as one who loves his country. I am a patriot, and I want to see a greater, grander England. I want to see a Britain that shall be happy, prosperous, contented. I want to destroy poverty, to smash up the old order of things—an order which has dragged squalor, misery, poverty, injustice, inequality at its heels. I am tired—tiredof seeing criminal wealth and mad luxury and waste on the one hand, and abject grinding poverty on the other. And to cure it all you must go to the roots of things; there must be great upheavals, revolutions. The land must be the people's, the mineral must be the people's, the water, the food, the wealth, the Army, the Navy, theeverythingmust belong to the people."
"Bolshevism!" The word came from him abruptly—angrily.
"Yes, Bolshevism," replied the other; "and what then?"
"Russia!" and there was a sneer in Dick's voice as he uttered the word.
"Yes, Russia if you like. And still, what then? Would you have Russia go on century by century as it had been going? Would you have scores upon scores of millions of men and women go on existing as they were existing? You know the history of Russia for ten centuries past. What has it been?—a criminal, bloated, corrupt, cruel, overbearing, persecuting aristocracy and bureaucracy on the one hand, and a welter of poor, suffering, starving, outraged, diseased, dying people on the other. That was Russia. And desperate diseases need desperate remedies, my friend. Of course, the very name of Russia is being shuddered at just now. But think, my friend. Birth is always a matter of travail, and Russia is being re-born. But wait. In ten years Russia will be regarded as the pioneer of civilisation—as the herald of a new age. Russia is taking the only step possible that will lead to justice, and to peace, and prosperity for all."
"You don't mean that!" Dick scarcely knew that he spoke.
"I am as certain of it as that I sit here. I swear it by whatever gods there be!"
Plain, stout Mr. John Brown was changed. Dick forgot his fat, chubby hands, his round, benevolent, kindly, but commonplace face. It was a new Mr. John Brown that he saw. A new light shone in his eyes, a new tone had come to his voice, a seemingly new spirit inspired him.
"I go further," cried Mr. Brown, "and I say this: England—the British Isles need the same remedy. All that you have been thinking about are sticking-plasters—palliatives, and not cures. What England needs is a Revolution. All the old corrupt, crushing forces must be destroyed, the old gods overthrown, and a new evangelist must proclaim a new gospel."
"A madman's dream," protested Dick. "Let's talk of something else."
"Not yet," replied Mr. John Brown. "Tell me this, you who long for a new heaven and a new earth—you who plead for justice, for fraternity, for brotherhood: do you believe that the programme—I mean the organised programme—of the Labour Party or the Socialist Party will ever bring about what you desire?"
Dick was silent.
"Ah, you are honest. You know it will not. In your heart of hearts you know, too, that nothing but a thorough upheaval, a complete Revolution of the bad old order of things can bring about what you desire. Patching up an old building whose walls are cracked, whose drains are corrupt, whose foundations are insecure, is waste of time and energy. If you want a new sanitary house the old place has to be demolished and the rubbishcleared away! That's it, my friend. That's what's needed in this country. The rubbish must be cleared away. That's what the people want. For the moment they are crying out for something, they hardly know what, but they will have a Revolution, and they are longing for a leader to lead them, a prophet to interpret their needs."
"But for England to become another Russia!" Dick's response was that of a man who had not yet grasped all that was in the other's mind.
"There is no need of that. Because England has not sunk to the depths of Russia, her revolution would be less violent. There would be no need for excesses, for violence. But here is the fact, my friend: three-fourths of our population belong to the wage-earning classes; they are the toilers and the moilers; let the true gospel be preached to them, let the true prophet and leader appear, and they would follow him."
"And who is to be the prophet, the leader?"
"You, my friend."
"I!" gasped Dick.
"You. Richard Faversham. You who have tasted the sweets of wealth. You who have toiled and sweated with the workers. You who have eyes to see, ears tohear. You who have the power to interpret the people's longings. You who have the qualities of the leader, who can take them to the Promised Land. You!"
"Madness!"
"You say that now. You will not say it in a few hours from now. You can understand now what I meant when I startled you an hour ago by saying that I see such a future before you as was never possible to any Englishman. You are young; you are ambitious. It is right you should be. No man who is not ambitious is worth a rotten stick to his age. Here is such a career as was never known before. Never, I say! Man, it's glorious! You can become the greatest man of the age—of all the ages!"
Mr. Brown looked at Dick intently for a few seconds, and then went on, speaking every word distinctly.
"A Labour Member, indeed! A voting machine at four hundred a year! The hack of his party organisation! Is that a career for a man like you? Heavens, such a thought is sacrilege! But this, my friend, is the opportunity of a life—of all time."
"Stop!" cried Dick. "I want to grasp it—to think!"
"But youaremad," said the young man at length. "Even if you are right in your diagnosis of the disease from which the country is suffering, if the remedy you suggest is the only one, I am not the man you need. And even if I were, the remedy is impossible. England is not where France was a hundred years ago; she is not where Russia is to-day."
"And you are not a Lenin, a Trotsky, eh?" and Mr. John Brown laughed like a man who had made a joke.
"No, thank Heaven, I am not," and Dick spoke quickly. "I do not believe in the nationalisation of women, neither do I believe in the destruction of the most sacred institutions of life."
"Of course you don't," replied Mr. John Brown, "and I am glad of it. Russia has gone to many excesses which we must avoid. But what can you expect, my friend? After centuries of oppression and persecution, is it any wonder that there has been a swing of the pendulum? The same thing was true of France a hundred years ago. France went wild, France lost her head, and neither Danton nor Robespierre checked the extravagances of the people. But, answer me this. Is not France a thousand times better to-day than when under the Bourbons and the Church? Is not such a Republic as France has, infinitely better than the reign of a corrupt throne, a rotten aristocracy, and a rottener Church? Besides, did not a great part of those who were guillotined deserve their doom?"
"Perhaps they did; but—but the thing is impossible, all the same."
"Why impossible?"
"For one thing, Lenin and Trotsky are in a country without order and law. They murdered the Tzar and his family, and they seized the money of the Government and of the banks. Such a thing as you suggest would need millions, and you could not get any body of Englishmen to follow on the Russian lines. Besides—no, the thing is impossible!"
"Money!" repeated Mr. John Brown, like a man reflecting. "I myself would place in your hands all the money you need for organisation and propaganda."
"Inmyhands!"
"In your hands, my friend. Yes, in your hands. But we have talked enough now. You want time to think over what has been said. But will you do something, my friend?"
"I don't know. I suspect not."
"I think you will. To-night I want you to accompany me to a place where your eyes will be opened. I want you to see how deep are the feelings of millions, how strong is the longing for a leader, a guide. You, who have felt the pulses of the millions who live and act in the open, have no idea of what is felt by the millions who act in the dark."
"I do not understand."
"Of course you don't. You and other so-called Labour leaders, because you mingle with a class which you call the people, think you know everything. You believe you know the thought, the spirit of the age. Come with me to-night and I will show you a phase of life hitherto unknown to you. You will come? Yes?"
"Oh yes, I will come," replied Dick, with a laugh. The conversation had excited him beyond measure, and he was eager for adventure.
"Good. Be at the entrance to the Blackfriars Underground Station to-night at eleven o'clock."
"At eleven; all right."
Mr. John Brown looked at his watch, and then gave a hasty glance round the room. He saw two portly looking men coming in their direction.
"I am sure you will excuse me, Mr. Faversham. It is later than I thought, and I find I have appointments.But it has been very interesting to know your point of view. Good evening. Ah, Sir Felix, I thought you might drop in to-night," and leaving Dick as though their talk had been of the most commonplace nature, he shook hands with the newcomers.
Dick, feeling himself dismissed, left the club, and a minute later found himself in the thronging crowd of Piccadilly. Taxicabs, buses, richly upholstered motor-cars were passing, but he did not heed them. People jostled him as he made his way towards Hyde Park gates, but he was unaware of it. His head was in a whirl; he was living in a maze of conflicting thoughts.
Of course old John Brown was a madman! Nothing but a madman would advance such a quixotic programme! He pictured the club he had just left—quiet, orderly, circumspect—the natural rendezvous for City and West End magnates, the very genius of social order and moneyed respectability. How, then, could a respected member of such a place advance such a mad-brained scheme?
But he had.
Not that he—Dick Faversham—could regard it seriously. Of course he had during the last two years been drawn into a new world, and had been led to accept socialistic ideas. Some, even among the Socialists, called them advanced. But this!
Of course it was impossible.
All the same, there was a great deal in what John Brown had said. A Labour Member. A paid voting machine at £400 a year! The words rankled in his mind.
And this scheme was alluring. The country for the people!...
He made his way along the causeway, thinking of it.
A Revolution! The old bad, mad order of things ended by one mighty upheaval! A new England, with a new outlook, a new Government!... A mighty movement which might grip the world. A new earth....
And he—Dick Faversham?
Here was scope for new enterprises! Here was a career! On the one hand, a paid working man member at £400 a year, regarded with a supercilious smile by theclass to which he really belonged; and, on the other, a force which shook Society to its foundations—a leader whose name would be on all lips....
Of course it was all nonsense, and he would drive it from his mind.
And he would not meet Mr. John Brown that night. What a madcap idea to go to some midnight gathering—where, Heaven only knew! And for what?
He had reached Park Lane, and almost unconsciously he turned eastward.
He could not remember a single thing that had happened during his walk from Park Lane to Piccadilly Circus. The great tide of human life surged to and fro, but he was oblivious of the fact.
He was thinking—wildly thinking.
Then suddenly he gave a start. Just as he reached the Circus he saw a face which set his heart beating wildly.
"Ah, Faversham, is that you?"
"Count Romanoff!" Dick almost gasped.
"Yes; who would have thought of seeing you? Still, the world is small."
The Count was not changed. He still carried himself proudly, and was dressed to perfection. Also, he still seemed to regard others with a degree of indifference. He was the same contemptuous, cynical man of the world.
"What are you doing, eh? Still living at Wendover Park?"
"No. You know I am not."
"No? Ah, I remember now. I have been knocking around the world ever since, and had almost forgotten. But your quondam cousin entered possession, didn't he? But you, what did you do?"
"Oh, I—I drifted."
"Drifted—where?—to what? You look changed. Things are not going well with you, eh?"
"Yes—quite well, thank you."
"Yes? You married Lady Blanche? But no, I should have heard of it."
"No; I did not marry. I am living in Eastroyd."
"Eastroyd! Where's that?"
"Don't you know?"
"Never heard of it before. Is it in England?"
Dick was growing angry; there was a sneer in every tone of the man's voice. He felt a mad desire to make the Count see that he had become a man of importance.
"Yes; it's in the North," he replied. "It's a huge town of a quarter of a million people. A great industrial centre."
"And what are you doing there?"
"I'm contemplating an invitation to become a Member of Parliament for the town. I'm assured that, if I accept, my return to the House of Commons is certain."
"Ah, that's interesting. And which side will you take—Conservative or Liberal? Conservative, I suppose?"
"No; I should stand as a Labour candidate."
"As a——Surely I didn't hear you aright?"
"Quite right. My sympathies have come to lie in that direction."
"But—but—a Labour Member! I thought you had some pretensions to be a gentleman."
Dick felt as though he had received the lash of a whip. He wanted to lash back, to make Romanoff feel what he felt. But no words came.
"You have no sympathy with the working classes?" he asked feebly.
"Sympathy! What gentleman could? See what they've done in my own country. I had little sympathy with Nicky; but great heavens, think! Of course I'm angry. I had estates in Russia; they had been in the families for centuries—and now! But the thing is a nightmare! Working classes, eh! I'd take every mal-content in Europe and shoot him. What are the working classes but lazy, drunken swine that should be bludgeoned into obedience?"
"I don't think you understand the British working classes," was Dick's response.
"No? I'm sure I don't want to. I prefer my own class. But pray don't let me keep you from them. Good evening."
Without another word, without holding out his hand, the Count turned on his heel and walked away.
The incident affected Dick in two ways. First of all, it made his experiences three years before in the Wendover Park very shadowy and unreal. In spite of everything, he had not been able to think of the Count save as an evil influence in his life, as one who desired to get him into his power for his own undoing. He had had a vague belief that in some way unknown to him, Romanoff desired to hold him in his grip for sinister purposes, and that he had been saved by an opposing power. Had he been asked to assert this he would have hesitated, and perhaps been silent. Still, at the back of his doubt the feeling existed. But now, with the memory of the Count's contemptuous words and looks in his mind, it all appeared as groundless and as unreal as the fabric of a dream. If he had been right, he would not have treated him in such a fashion.
The other way in which the incident affected him was to arouse an angry determination to win a position equal to and superior to that which would be his as Charles Faversham's heir. He would by his own endeavours rise to such heights that even the Count's own position would pale into insignificance. After all, what were kings and princes? Their day was over. Soon, soon thrones all over the world would topple like ninepins; soon the power of the world would be in new hands.
A Labour Member, indeed! Working people swine, were they? Soon the working people of the world would be masters! Then woe be to a useless, corrupt aristocracy! As for the leaders of the toilers...
"I'll meet Mr. John Brown again to-night," he reflected. "I'll go to this, this!... I wonder what he has in his mind?"
Meanwhile Count Romanoff wandered along Piccadilly till he came to St. James's Street. He was smiling as though something pleasant had happened to him. His eyes, too, shone with a strange light, and he walked like a victor.
He walked past the Devonshire Club, and then turnedinto a street almost opposite St. James's Square. Here he looked at his watch and walked more slowly. Evidently he knew his way well, for he took several turnings without the slightest hesitation, till at length he reached a house at the corner of a street. He selected a key from a bunch, opened the door of the house, and entered. For a moment he stood still and listened; then, walking noiselessly along a thick carpet, he opened the door of a room and entered.
"Sitting in the dark, eh? Reflecting on the destiny of nations, I suppose?"
The Count's manner was light and pleasant. He was in a good humour. He switched on the light and saw Mr. John Brown. It would seem that they had met by appointment.
"Yes," replied Mr. Brown; "I was reflecting on the destiny of nations—reflecting, too, on the fact that the greatest victories of the world are won not by armies who fight in the open, but by brains that act in the dark."
"You have seen him. I know that."
"How do you know?"
"I know everything, my friend. You met him about an hour ago. You had a long talk with him. You have baited your hook, and thrown it. Before you could tell whether the fish would rise, you thought it better to wait. You decided to make further preparations."
"Romanoff, I believe you are the devil."
"Many a true word is spoken in jest, my friend. But, devil or not, am I not right?"
"You have seen him? He has told you?"
"He has told me nothing. Yes, he has, though. He has told me he had ambitions to be a Labour Member of Parliament."
"But nothing more?"
"Nothing more. I was passing along the street and spoke to him."
The two were looking at each other eagerly, questioningly. Mr. John Brown's face had become flabby; the flesh around his eyes was baggy. The eyes had a furtive look, as though he stood in awe of his companion.Romanoff, too, in spite of his claim to omniscience, might be a little anxious.
"The fellow's career is a miracle," remarked Mr. John Brown at length. "A millionaire one day, a pauper the next. And then to settle down as a toiler among toilers—to become the popular hero, the socialist leader, the rebel, the seer of visions, the daring reformer! A miracle, I say! But with proper guidance, he is the man we need. He can do much!"
Count Romanoff laughed like one amused.
"Germany is in a bad way, eh? Poor Wilhelm, what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"