Count Romanoff sat in a handsomely furnished room. It formed a part of a suite he had taken in a fashionable London hotel. He was smoking a cigar, while at his side was a tray with several decanters containing spirits.
He seemed to be puzzled, and often there was an angry gleam in his eyes, a cruel smile on his lips.
"I am not sure of him," he muttered, "and so far I've failed altogether. More than once I was certain that I had him—certain that he was bound to me hand and foot, and then——"
He started to his feet and strode impatiently across the room. He appeared angry. Looking out of the window, he could see the tide of human beings which swept hither and thither in the London street.
"Good and evil," he said aloud—"good and evil. Those people are all the time tempted, and yet—and yet——But I'll have him. It's only a matter of time now."
He heard a knock at the door, and started violently. For a self-contained, strong man, he seemed at times to be peculiarly apprehensive.
"Yes; come in. Ah, it's you, is it? I was expecting you."
"Count Romanoff, are you ever surprised?" It was Mr. John Brown who spoke, and who quietly came into the room.
"Rarely," replied the Count. "Why should I? After all, the events of life are a matter of calculation. Certain forces, certain powers of resistance—and there you are."
"It takes a clever man to calculate the forces or the powers of resistance," replied Mr. Brown.
"Just so. Well, I am clever."
Mr. Brown looked at him curiously, and there was an expression almost of fear in his eyes.
"Count Romanoff," he said, "I wonder sometimes if you are not the Devil—if there is a devil," he added as if in afterthought.
"Why, do you doubt it?"
"I don't know. It would be difficult to explain some things and some people unless you postulate a devil."
The Count laughed almost merrily. "Then why not accept the fact?" he asked.
"Do you?" asked Mr. Brown.
"I have no doubt of it. I—but wait. You must clear the ground. The existence of a devil presupposes evil—and good. If what the world calls evil is evil—there is a devil."
"You speak like one who knows."
"I do know."
"How do you know?"
"Because——But look here, my friend, you did not come here to discussthatproblem."
"No; I did not. I came because I wanted to discuss——"
"A young man called Richard Faversham. Very well, let's discuss him," and the Count took a fresh cigar and lit it.
"I've been thinking a good deal since I saw you last," said Mr. Brown—"thinking pretty deeply."
The Count for reply looked at Mr. Brown steadily, but spoke no word.
"I have been wondering at your interest in him," said Mr. Brown. "He's not your sort."
"Perhaps that's a reason," he suggested.
"Still I do not understand you."
"But I understand you. I know you through and through. You, although you are a member of the best London clubs, although you pass as a Britisher of Britishers, and although you bear a good old commonplaceEnglish name, hate Britain, and especially do you hate England. Shall I tell you why?"
"Not aloud, my friend—not aloud; there may be servants outside—people listening," and Mr. Brown spoke in a whisper.
"Ishallspeak aloud," replied the Count, "and there is no one listening. I feel in a communicative, garrulous mood to-night, and it's no use mincing words. You hate England, because you are German at heart, and a German by birth, although no one knows it—but me. I also hate England."
"Why?" asked Mr. Brown.
"Because it stands for those things I abominate. Because, in spite of its so-called materialism, it still holds fast to the old standards of religion, and all that religion means. It stands for what the world calls progress, for civilisation, and Democracy. And I hate Democracy."
"You are a Russian," commented Mr. Brown—"a Russian aristocrat, therefore you would naturally hate Democracy."
"Am I?" and the Count laughed. "Well, call me that if you like."
"You told me so when we first met."
"Did I? I know you came to me in a sad way. You began to doubt your country, and your country's victory. You saw that it would never gain what it desired and hoped on the battlefield. You realised that this England—this Britain that you had scorned—was mightier than you thought. You saw that John Bull, whom I hate as much as you, was practically invincible."
"Yes; I could not help realising that. I admitted it to you, and you told me to——"
"Take special note of Faversham. I told you his story."
"Yes, you did, and I accepted your advice. I went to Eastroyd; I made his acquaintance."
"And were impressed by the power he had obtained over the working classes, the Democracy, that we hear so much about. As you told me, he had taken up theircause, and that he had developed the gift of public oratory so assiduously that his power over working-class audiences was almost magnetic."
"But look here, Count, I——"
"Pardon me a moment. I had studied Faversham for years. For reasons of my own, I wanted him to do certain things."
Mr. Brown sat quietly, watching the Count, who ceased speaking suddenly, and seemed to be staring into vacancy.
"Did you ever read a book by a man named John Bunyan, calledThe Holy War?" he asked, with seeming irrelevance.
Mr. Brown laughed. "Years ago, when I was a boy," he replied.
"A wonderful book, my friend. I have read it many times."
"Youread it many times! Why, what interest could such a book have for you?"
"A very deep interest," and there was a curious intonation in his voice.
"What interest?" asked Mr. Brown.
The Count rose to his feet and knocked some ash from the end of his cigar. "Corpo di Bacco!" he cried. "Did not the man get deep? The city of Mansoul! And the Devil wanted to get it. So he studied the fortifications. Eyegate, nosegate, touchgate, eargate he saw, he understood!"
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Mr. Brown in astonishment.
"There is one passage which goes deep," went on the Count as though Mr. Brown had not spoken. "It contained some of the deepest philosophy of life; it went to the roots of the whole situation. I had it in my mind when I advised you to make Faversham's acquaintance."
"What passage?" asked Mr. Brown, still failing to catch the drift of the other's words.
"It is this," and the Count spoke very quietly. "For here lay the excellent wisdom of Him who built Mansoul, that the walls could never be broken down, nor hurt bythe most mighty adverse potentate, unless the townsmen gave consent thereto."
Mr. Brown looked puzzled. "I don't follow you," he said.
"Don't you? Bunyan wrote in parable, but his meaning is plain. He said that Diabolus could never conquer Mansoul except by the consent of Mansoul. Well, I saw this: England—Britain—could never be conquered except by the consent of the people of England. United, Britain is unconquerable."
"Well?"
"Therefore, I made you see that if your country, which stands for force, and militarism, and barbarism, was to conquer England you must get England divided; you must get her own forces in a state of disunity. A country at war with itself is powerless. Set class against class, interest against interest, party against party, and you produce chaos. That is the only hope of your country, my friend. The thing was to get a man who could do this for you."
"And you thought of Faversham?"
"I told you to make his acquaintance."
"Which I have done. The results you know."
"Are you satisfied with the results?"
Mr. John Brown was silent a few seconds. Evidently he was thinking deeply.
"He is no Bolshevist at heart," he said.
"Are you?"
"I? Great heavens, no! I hate it, except for my enemies. But it has served our purpose so far. Russia is in a state of chaos; it is powerless—bleeding at our feet. If Russia had remained united, we, the Germans, would have been crushed, beaten, ruined. As it is——"
"I love the condition of Russia," and Romanoff spoke almost exultantly. "I love it! It is what I hoped for, strove for, prayed for!"
"You—a Russian—say that! Andyoupray?"
"Yes; I pray. What then?"
"But you did not pray to God?" and there was a note of fear in Mr. Brown's voice.
"I prayed to my own god," replied Romanoff, "whois a very good counterpart of the god of your Kaiser. The good old German god, eh?" and he laughed ruthlessly. "And what is he, my friend? A god of force, a god of cruelty. Ruthlessness, mercilessness, anything to win. That's the German god. I prayed to that."
Mr. Brown almost shuddered.
"Yes; the condition of Russia is one of the great joys of my life. It means victory—victory for me, for you—if we can only get England to follow Russia's example."
"If we only could," assented Mr. Brown.
"And there are elements at work which, properly used, will bring this about," went on the Count. "I, Romanoff, tell you so. And Faversham is your man."
"He is no Bolshevist," again urged Mr. Brown. "At heart he knows what it means. That's why I am nearly hopeless about him. Give him time to think, and he will see that it will mean chaos—ruin to the things he has been taught to love."
"Before Adam ate the forbidden fruit two things happened," remarked Romanoff.
"What?"
"First the serpent worked. Then the woman."
"The woman! Yes; the woman!"
"Human nature is a curious business," went on the Count. "There are several points at which it is vulnerable. I have made a special point of studying human nature, and this I have seen."
"I don't quite follow you."
"I don't speak in riddles, my friend. Take a strong character like Faversham, and consider it. What is likely to appeal to it? As I understand the case, there are three main channels of appeal. First, money, and all that money means. Next there is ambition, greed for power, place, position, dominance. Then there is the eternal thing—the Senses. Drink, gluttony, drugs, women. Generally any one of these things will master a man, but bring them altogether and it is certain he will succumb."
"Yes, yes, I see."
"Money, and all that money brings, is not enough inFaversham's case. That I know. But he is intensely ambitious—and—and he is young."
"That is why you told me to introduce him to Olga?"
"A woman can make a man do what, under ordinary circumstances, he would scorn to do. If you advocated Bolshevism to him, even although you convinced him that he could be Lenin and Trotsky rolled into one, and that he could carry the Democracy of Britain with him, he would laugh at you. I saw that yesterday after your conversation with him. He was attracted for an hour, but I saw that he laughed at your proposals. That was why I told you to let him see and hear Olga. Now, tell me of their meeting."
Mr. Brown described in correct detail Dick's experiences in the East of London.
"Never did I believe a woman could be such a siren," Mr. Brown concluded. "She charmed, she magnetised, she fascinated."
"Is he in love with her?" asked the Count.
"If he is not he must be a stone," said Mr. Brown.
"Yes, but is he? I told you to watch him—to report to me."
"I do not know. He did not consent readily; he must have time to think, he said. But, man, he cannot resist her!"
"I do not know."
"But have you ever heard of any man who could resist her blandishments? Has she not been called a sorceress?"
"Yes, yes, I know—but he promised her nothing?"
"He said he would let her know later."
"Then he has resisted. My friend, I do not understand him. But—but—let me think."
"He was greatly impressed not only by her, but by her arguments," went on Mr. Brown presently. "I tell you, the woman is a sibyl, a witch. She was wonderful—wonderful. While I listened, I—even I—almost believed in her description of Bolshevism. A new heaven, and a new earth! I tell you, I almost believed in it. She pictured a paradise, an El Dorado, an Elysium,and she made Faversham see, understand. I tell you, he cannot resist her, and if he promises her, as he will, I can see England in a state of chaos in six months. Then—then——"
But the Count did not seem to be listening. His eyes were turned towards the streets, but he saw nothing.
"He went to a spiritualistic séance this afternoon," he said presently.
"What?—Faversham?"
"Yes, Faversham. What do you think it means?"
"I cannot think. He has never struck me as that sort of fellow."
"Look here, Brown, have you had many intimate talks with him?"
"Intimate? Yes, I think so."
"What have you talked about?"
"Always about the condition of the people, politics, and things of that nature."
"Have you ever discussed religion with him?"
"I don't believe he has any religion."
"I wonder?"
"What do you wonder?"
"I say, during your conversations with him—during your visits to Eastroyd—have you ever heard, have you ever discovered, that he is in love with anyone?"
"Never. He has taken no notice of women since I have known him. He seems to have been engrossed in his socialistic work. Mind, I doubt whether, at heart, he is even a socialist, much less a Bolshevist."
"That does not matter if we can get him to enlist in Olga's crusade. He has enough influence among, not only the working classes of the country, but among the leaders of the working classes all over the land, to create disturbances. He can inspire strikes; he can cause anarchy among the people. He can imbue them with Bolshevist ideals; he can make great promises. That done, the British Army is powerless. Without coals, and without the means of transport—don't you see?"
"Of course I see. That's what I've had in my mind from the first. If that can be done, Germany will be master of the world!"
"And more than that," and the Count spoke exultantly, "I shall have him, body and soul."
"But we must be very careful. If our plans leak out, my life will not be worth a row of pins."
Again the Count paced the room. He did not seem to be heeding Mr. Brown. His face worked convulsively, his eyes burned red, his hands clenched and unclenched themselves.
"I vowed I'd have him," he reflected—"vowed he should be mine. Left by himself he will do great things for what is called the good of the world. He will work for sobriety, purity, British national life. The man has powers, qualities which mean great things for what pietists call the world's betterment. But he is an aristocrat at heart; he loves money, and, more, he loves position, fame. He is as ambitious as Napoleon. He longs for power. But he has a conscience; he has a strong sense of what he calls right and wrong. I thought I had him down at Wendover. But I failed. Why, I wonder? But I will not fail this time. Olga will dull his conscience. She has charmed, fascinated him. She will make him her slave. Then—then——"
"Yes, yes," broke in Mr. Brown, who had only half understood the Count's monologue; "then he will cause a revolution here in England, and Britain as a fighting power will be paralysed. But I am not sure of him. He loves his country, and unless Olga gets hold of him, and that soon, he will see what our plans mean, and he will refuse to move hand or foot. You see, we've got no hold on him."
"We've every hold on him," almost snapped the Count. "We've appealed to his every weakness, and Olga will do the rest. I select my tools carefully, my friend."
A knock was heard at the door, and the Count impatiently opened it. "I am engaged; I cannot be disturbed," he said.
"The lady said she must see you," protested the servant, "so I—I thought I'd better come."
The Count looked beyond the man, and saw a woman closely veiled.
"Show the lady in," and a few seconds later she threw off her wraps and revealed her face.
"Olga?" cried both men together.
"Yes; I thought I'd better brave all danger. I've heard from him."
"From Faversham?"
"Yes; a long telegram."
"What does he say?" gasped Mr. Brown.
"I have it here," replied Olga breathlessly.
Dick Faversham walked along Oxford Street thinking deeply. Although he had been by no means convinced by what he had seen and heard, he could not help being impressed. The whole of the proceedings might be accounted for by jugglery and clever trickery, or, on the other hand, influences might have been at work which he could not understand—influences which came from the unseen world. But nothing satisfied him. Everything he had experienced lacked dignity. It was poor; it was sordid. He could not help comparing the outstanding features of the séance with the events which had so affected him. The face of the woman in the smoking-room of the steamer, the sublime figure which had upheld him when he was sinking in the wild, stormy sea, was utterly removed from the so-called spirits who had obeyed the summons of the mediums, and acted through them. How tawdry, too, were the so-called messages compared with the sublime words which had come to him almost like a whisper, and yet so plainly that he could hear it above the roar of the ocean:
"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."
This was sublime—sublime in the great comfort it gave him, sublimer still in what it signified to the life of the world.
"It's true, too!" he exclaimed aloud, as he threaded his way along the crowded thoroughfare. "True!"
He stopped as the meaning of the words came to him:
"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."
And because that was true, everything was possible!
As he thought of it, his materialism melted like snow in a tropical sun, and he realised how superficial and how silly his past scepticism had been.
God was behind all, underneath all, in all, through all. And if that was true, He had a thousand agents working to do His will, an infinite variety of means whereby His purposes were carried out. He, Dick Faversham, could not understand them; but what of that? God was greater than the thoughts of the creatures He had made.
But what of his own immediate actions? He had promised Olga that he would that very day send her a telegram where and when he could meet her, and that this telegram would signify his intention to fall in with her plans. She had given him directions where this telegram was to be sent, and he had to confess that he had looked forward to meeting her again with no ordinary pleasure.
The memory of their strange conversation on the previous night, and the picture of her glorious womanhood came to him with a strange vividness. Well, why should he not send the telegram?
He passed a post office just then, and turned as though he would enter. But he did not pass through the doorway. Something, he could not tell what, seemed to hold him back. He thought little of it, however, and still made his way along Oxford Street, towards High Holborn.
Again the problem of the future faced him, and he wondered what to do. Somehow, he could not tell why, but the thought of meeting the beautiful Russian did not seem to be in accord with the sublime words which were surging through his brain:
"The Eternal God is thy Refuge."
He found himself thinking of the wondrous face which had appeared to him as he stood at the door of Wendover Park, and he remembered the words that came to him.
"Pray, pray!" the voice had said. "Watch and pray!"
"God help me!" he cried almost involuntarily. "Great God help me!"
He still threaded his way through the crowd in the great thoroughfare, almost unconscious of what he did. He was scarcely aware that he had uttered a cry to Heaven for help. He passed the end of Chancery Lane and then came to the old timbered houses which stand opposite Gray's Inn Road. But this ancient part of London did not appeal to him. He did not notice that the houses were different from others. He was almost like a man in a dream.
Then suddenly he found himself in Staple Inn. How he had come there he did not know. He had no remembrance of passing through the old doorway, but he was there, and the change from the roar of the great thoroughfare outside and the silence of this little sequestered nook impressed him.
There was not a soul visible in the little square. As all Londoners know, Staple Inn is one of the smallest and quietest in the metropolis. The houses which form it are mostly occupied by professional men, and there is scarcely ever anything like traffic there. But this afternoon there was no one to be seen, and the change from the crowded highway was pleasant.
"What in the world am I doing here?" he asked himself.
But before he had time to answer the question he had propounded he realised a strange sensation. Although he could see nothing, he felt that some presence was near him.
"Listen."
The word was scarcely above a whisper, but he heard it plainly. He looked around him, his senses alert, but nothing was to be seen.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes." He spoke the word almost involuntarily, and his voice seemed strange to his own ears.
"Do you know Drury Lane?"
"Yes," and he looked around wonderingly, trying to locate the voice.
"To-night, at nine o'clock, you must go to Drury Lane. You must walk westward until you come to Blot Street. Turn up at Blot Street, and keep along theright side. You must turn at the third street. You are sure you are following my instructions?"
"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "Who are you? Where are you?"
"You must walk along the third street for about twenty steps, stopping at the door marked 13a. You will knock five times in quick succession. You will wait five seconds, then you will give two more knocks louder than the first. The door will be opened, and you will be asked your business. Your reply will be two words, 'Victory,' 'Dominion.' You will be admitted without further questions. After that use your own judgment."
Suddenly there was a change as if in the whole atmosphere. He had, as it seemed to him, been in a kind of trance, but now he was more than ordinarily awake. And he was alone. Whatever had been near him was gone. The voice had ceased speaking.[1]
For some time Dick Faversham stood alone in the square without moving hand or foot. He was in a state of astonishment which was beyond the power of words to describe. But he had no doubt that he had heard the voice; he was as certain that some presence which he could not see had been near him as that he was certain he stood there at that moment.
Outside the square in Holborn the tide of traffic rolled on. Conveyances filled with human life rushed eastward and westward; men and women, oblivious to the fact of any world save their own, made their way to their destinations; but inside the square a man felt he had been in touch with mystery, eternity.
He moved into High Holborn like a man in a dream, and stood for a few seconds watching the faces of the passers-by.
"And not one of them seems to realise that the spirit world is all around them," he reflected.
He never thought of disobeying the commands he had received. The voice had come to him with a note of authority; the message was one which must be obeyed.
Slowly he made his way westward again, and presently came to a post office. He entered without hesitation, wrote a telegram, gave it to the clerk, and, having paid for its dispatch, again made his way along the street.
"There, that's done with," he said, with a sigh of relief.
At nine o'clock that night he found himself in Drury Lane following the instructions he had received. He was quite calm, although his heart throbbed with expectancy. He had little or no thought of what he was going to see or hear; enough for him that he was obeying instructions, that he was acting upon the commands which had come to him for his good. For he had no doubt that these commands were somehow for his benefit. Almost unconsciously he associated the presence near him with the one who had hovered over him with arms outstretched when he had been sinking in the stormy sea.
He had no difficulty in finding Blot Street, and quickly found himself at the third turning of that shabby-looking thoroughfare.
"Chainley Alley," he read in the dim light of the darkened street lamp at the corner.
The place was very quiet. He was now away from the traffic of the broad streets, and ordinary business had ceased for the day. There was nothing to mark Chainley Alley from a hundred others which may still be found in the centre of London. It was simply a dark, grimy little opening which, to the ordinary passer-by, presented no interest whatever. A minute later he stood at 13a. All was dark here, and it was with difficulty that he discerned the number. He listened intently, but heard no sound, and then, with a fast-beating heart, he knocked five times in quick succession. Then, waiting five seconds, he knocked again according to instructions.
The door opened as if by magic. It might seem that he was expected. But the passage into which he looked was as black as ink; neither could he hear anything.
Then suddenly the silence was broken. "Who are you? What do you want?" asked someone unseen.
"'Victory,' 'Dominion,'" he whispered.
A dim light shone, and he saw what looked like a woman of the caretaker order. Evidently the house was bigger than he imagined, for the woman led him down a long corridor which suggested that it was a way to another and a larger block of buildings in the rear.
She opened a door and told him to go in. "You will wait there till I call you," she whispered, and then closed the door behind him.
There was a thick rug on the floor, which muffled the sound of his footsteps, but there was no furniture in the room save a deal table and one straight-backed chair. A tiny gas-jet burnt on the wall, which, however, was extinguished a few seconds after the door had closed.
"This is darkness with a vengeance," reflected Dick, but the fact did not trouble him so much because he had brought a small electric lamp with him. He switched on this light and saw that the room had no outlet at all, save the door. There was neither window nor fireplace, and, in fact, was little more than a large cupboard.
Before he had time to realise what this might mean, he heard the sound of footsteps, which seemed to be close by; this was followed by murmuring voices. Then there were more footsteps, and the voices became clearer.
"Is he come?" he heard one man say.
"Not yet. But he'll soon be here. He did not promise to get here till half-past nine."
From that time there was a general hum of conversation, which was intermingled by the clinking of glasses. It might be that he was close to a kind of club-room, and that the members were arriving and ordering refreshments. The conversation continued, now indistinct, and again more clear. Dick caught snatches of it, but it was not connected, and conveyed but little meaning to him.
Suddenly he heard everything plainly, and a sentence struck him. "I hope he'll be careful," he heard someone say. "The whole lot of us would swing if we were foundhere together." The man spoke in German, and Dick's interest became tense.
"More likely be shot," someone retorted, with a laugh.
"But we're safe enough. This is the first time we've been here, and every care has been taken."
"I know," said someone, who appeared doubtful, "but if the British Secret Service people have been fools in the past, they are sharp enough now. Schleswig thought he was as safe as houses, but he was cleverly nabbed, and now he's cold meat."
"Never mind," said another voice, "our turn is coming. Gott in Himmel, won't we let them know when we are masters of London! Even now the English don't know that their country is a powder magazine. They little think that, in spite of their Alien Acts and the rest of it, the country is still riddled with friends of the Fatherland. Hark, he's coming!"
This was followed by a general shuffling of feet, and Dick instinctively felt that something of importance was about to happen. He wondered at the ease with which he could now hear. Evidently the partition which hid him from the room in which the conspirators had met (for evidently they were conspirators) was thin, or else there must have been some secret channel by which the sounds reached him. He realised, too, that these people had not entered by way of Chainley Alley, but that their room must have an outlet somewhere else. Possibly, probably too, as they had used this meeting-place for the first time that night, these people would be ignorant of the closet where he was hidden.
Dick heard a new voice, and he detected in a moment that it was a voice of authority. I will not attempt to relate all he heard, or attempt to give a detailed description of all that took place. I will only briefly indicate what took place.
The newcomer, who was evidently the person for whom the others had waited, seemed to regard those to whom he spoke as his subordinates. He was apparently the leader of a movement, who reported to his workers what progress had been made, and who gave them instructions as to the future.
He began by telling them that things were not going altogether well for the Fatherland, although he had no doubt of final victory.
But England—Great Britain—was their great enemy, and, unless she were conquered, Germany could never again attempt to be master of the world. But this could never be done altogether by force of arms.
"Russia is conquered!" he declared; "it lies bleeding, helpless, at our feet, but it was not conquered on the battlefield. By means of a thousand secret agencies, by careful and skilful propaganda, by huge bribes, and by playing on the ignorance of the foolish, we set the Bolshevist movement on foot, and it has done our work. Of course it has meant hell in Russia, but what of that? It was necessary for the Fatherland, and we did our work. What, although the ghastliest outrages are committed, and millions killed, if Germany gains her ends!"
What was done in Russia was also being done in Great Britain, he assured them. Of course, our task was harder because the people had, on the whole, been well conditioned and had the justest Government in the world. But he had not been dismayed. Thousands of agencies existed, and even among the English the Germans had many friends. The seeds which had been sown were bringing forth their harvest.
They had fermented strikes, and the English people hadn't known that they had done it. If some of the key industries, such as coal and transport, could be captured, England was doomed. This could be done by Bolshevism; and it was being done.
"But what real progress has been made?" someone dared to ask presently.
"We have workers, agents in all these industries," replied the man, "and I'm glad to tell you that we have won a new recruit, who, although he is a patriotic Englishman, will help our cause mightily. Our trusted friend, Mr. John Brown, has got hold of a man who has a tremendous influence among not only the working-class people in various unions, but among the leaders of those unions, and who will be of vast help in our cause,and of making Great Britain another Russia; that done, victory is ours."
"Who is he?"
"A young man named Faversham. John Brown has had him in hand for months, and has now fairly made him his tool. Even to-night, comrades, we shall get him into our net."
"Tell us more about him," cried someone; but before the speaker could reply, some sort of signal was evidently given, for there was a general stampede, and in an incredibly short time silence reigned.
Almost unconsciously Dick switched on his electric lamp and looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. Although he had not realised it, he had been in the little cupboard of a room more than an hour and a half, while these men had been plotting the ruin and the destruction of the country he loved.
For some time he could not grasp all he had heard, but the meaning of it was presently clear to him. The thought almost overwhelmed him. He had unwittingly been again and again playing into the hands of the enemy.
"I must get out of this," he reflected after a few seconds. "I must get back to the hotel and think it all out."
"You can go now." It was the woman who showed him there who spoke.
A few seconds later he was in the open air, making his way towards Drury Lane.
"Thank God!"
The words passed his lips involuntarily. It seemed the natural expression of his heart.
Almost unconsciously he found his way back to his hotel. He had no remembrance afterwards of the streets he had traversed, or of the turnings he had taken. His mind was too full of the thought that but for his wonderful experience in Staple Inn the facts he had learnt that night would not have been made known to him.
On reaching his hotel he made his way to his sitting-room, and on opening the door he saw a letter lying on the table, which on examination he found to be signed "Olga."
In order to relate this story in a connected manner it is necessary to return to Count Romanoff's rooms, where, a few hours earlier, both the Count and Mr. John Brown were startled by the sudden entrance of Olga.
"Let me see the telegram," the Count said, holding out his hand. His voice was somewhat hoarse, and his eyes had a peculiar glitter in them.
The girl handed it to him without a word.
"Impossible for me to come. Am leaving London almost immediately.—Faversham."
"Impossible for me to come. Am leaving London almost immediately.—Faversham."
"What time did you get this?" he asked.
"I scarcely know. Almost directly I got it I came to you. I thought it best. Do you think it is true? Do you believe he will leave London?"
The Count was silent for a few seconds. "It would seem so, wouldn't it?" he answered grimly. "But he mustnotleave London. At all hazards, he must be kept here."
"But it means that Olga has failed," cried Mr. John Brown. "It means that we have lost him!"
"We have not lost him. I'll see to that," and there was a snarl in Romanoff's voice. "Olga Petrovic, all now depends on you. At your peril you must keep him here; you must win him over. If you fail, so much the worse for you."
Evidently the girl was angered. "Do you threaten me?" she said, with flashing eyes.
"And if I do, what then?"
"Simply that I will not be threatened. If you speak to me in that fashion, I refuse to move another finger."
"I am not in the habit of having my plans destroyedby the whims of a petulant woman," said the Count very quietly. "I tell you that if you fail to keep him in London, and if you fail to make him your slave, ready to obey your every bidding, you pay the penalty."
"What penalty?"
"What penalty?" and the Count laughed. "Need you ask that? You are in my power, Countess Olga Petrovic. I know every detail of your history—every detail, mind you—from the time you were waiting-maid to the Czarina. Yours is a curious history, Countess. How much would your life be worth if it were known to the British authorities that you were in London? What would our German friends do to you if they knew the part you played at Warsaw?"
"You know of that?" she gasped.
"I know everything, Countess. But I wish you no harm. All I demand is that you gain and keep Faversham in your power."
"Why are you so anxious for him to be in my power?"
"Because then he will be in my power."
"Your power? Why do you wish him in your power? Do you want to do him harm?"
"Harm!" Then Romanoff laughed. "And if I do, what then?"
"That I refuse to serve you. Carry out your threats; tell the British authorities who I am. Tell the Germans what I did at Warsaw. I do not care. I defy you. Unless you promise me that you will not do Faversham harm, I will do nothing."
"Why are you interested as to whether I will do Faversham harm?"
"I am—that's all."
The Count was silent for a few seconds. Evidently his mind was working rapidly. "Look at me!" he cried suddenly, and, as if by some power she could not resist, she raised her eyes to his.
The Count laughed like one amused.
"You have fallen in love with him, eh?"
The girl was silent, but a flush mounted her cheeks.
"This is interesting," he sneered. "I did not thinkthat Olga Petrovic, who has regarded men as so many dogs of the fetch-and-carry order, and who has scorned the thought of love, should have fallen a victim to the malady. And to a thick-headed Englishman, too! Surely it is very sudden."
"You sneer," she cried, "but if I want to be a good woman; what then?"
The Count waved his hand airily. "Set's the wind in that quarter, eh? Well, well. But it is very interesting. I see; you love him—you, Olga Petrovic."
"And if I do," she cried defiantly, "what then?"
"Only that you will obey me the more implicitly."
"I will not obey you," she cried passionately. "And remember this, I am not a woman to be played with. There have been many who have tried to get the better of Olga Petrovic, and—and you know the result."
"La, la!" laughed the Count, "and so my lady threatens, does she? And do you know, if I were susceptible to a woman's beauty, I should rejoice to see you angry. Anger makes you even more beautiful than ever. For you are beautiful, Olga."
"Leave my beauty alone," she said sullenly. "It is not for you anyhow."
"I see, I see. Now listen to me. If you do not obey me in everything, I go to Richard Faversham, and I tell him who and what you are. I give him your history for the last ten years. Yes, for the last ten years. You began your career at eighteen and now you are twenty-eight. Yes, you look a young girl of twenty-two, and pride yourself upon it. Now then, Countess, which is it to be? Am I to help you to win the love of Faversham—yes and I can promise you that you shall win his love if you obey my bidding—or am I to go to him and tell him who Olga Petrovic really is?"
The girl looked at him angrily, yet piteously. For the first time she seemed afraid of him. Her eyes burnt with fury, and yet were full of pleading at the same time. Haughty defiance was on her face, while her lips trembled.
"But if you tell him, you destroy my plans. You cannot do that, Count!" It was Mr. John Brown who spoke, and there was a note of terror in his voice.
"Yourplans! What do I care for your plans?" cried the Count. "It is of my own plans I am thinking."
"But I thought, and as you know we agreed——"
"It is not for you to think, or to question my thoughts," interrupted the Count. "I allow no man to interpret my plans, or to criticise the way in which I work them out. But rest contented, my dear friend, John Brown," he added banteringly, "the success of your plans rests upon the success of my own."
While they were speaking Olga Petrovic gazed towards the window with unseeing eyes. She looked quite her age now: all suggestion of the young girl had gone, she was a stern, hard-featured woman. Beautiful she was, it is true, but with a beauty marked by bitter experience, and not the beauty of blushing girlhood.
"Well, Countess Olga, which is it to be?" asked Romanoff, who had been watching her while he had been speaking to Mr. Brown.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Do! Keep him in London. Enlist his sympathies. Make him your slave as you have made other men your slaves. Bind him to you hand and foot. Make him love you."
A strange light burned in the girl's eyes, for at the Count's last words she had seemingly thrown off years of her life. She had become young and eager again.
"Swear to me that you mean him no harm, and I will do it," was her reply. "If I can," she added, as an afterthought.
"Do you doubt it?" asked Romanoff. "Have you ever failed when you have made up your mind?"
"No, but I do not feel certain of him. He is not like those others. Besides, I failed last night. In his heart he has refused me already. He said he was leaving London almost immediately, which means that he does not intend to see me again."
"And you want to see him again?"
"Yes," she replied defiantly; "I do."
"Good." He seized a telephone receiver as he spoke and asked for a certain number. Shortly after he was connected with Dick's hotel.
"Mr. Richard Faversham of Eastroyd is staying with you, isn't he?"
"Mr. Richard Faversham? Yes, sir."
"Is he in?"
"No, sir, he went out a few minutes ago."
"Did he say when he was likely to return?"
"No, sir, he said nothing."
"But you expect him back to-night?"
"As far as I know, sir."
"Thank you. Either I, or a lady friend, will call to see him to-morrow morning at ten o'clock on a very important matter. Tell him that, will you?"
"Certainly, sir. What name?"
But the Count did not reply. He hung up the telephone receiver instead.
"Why did you say that?" asked Olga. "How dare I go to his hotel in broad daylight?"
"You dare do anything, Countess," replied the Count. "Besides, you need not fear. Although you are wanted by the British authorities, you are so clever at disguise that no detective in Scotland Yard would be able to see through it." He hesitated a moment, and then went on: "If we were in Paris I would insist on your going to see him to-night, but Mrs. Grundy is so much in evidence in England that we must not risk it."
"But if they fail to give him your message?" she asked. "Suppose he leaves to-morrow morning before I can get there?" Evidently she was eager to carry out this part of his plans.
"He will not leave," replied Romanoff; "still, we must be on the safe side. You must write and tell him you are coming. There is ink and paper on yonder desk."
"What shall I write?" she asked.
"Fancy Olga Petrovic asking such a question," laughed the Count. "Word your letter as only you can word it, and he will spend a sleepless night in anticipation of the joy of seeing you."
She hesitated for a few seconds, and then rushing to the desk began to write rapidly.
"And now," said Romanoff, when she had finished,"to avoid all danger we must send this by a special messenger."
Thus it was, when Dick Faversham returned from Chainley Alley that night that he found the letter signed "Olga" awaiting him.
It was no ordinary letter that he read. A stranger on perusing it would have said that it was simply a request for an interview, but to Dick it was couched in such a fashion that it was impossible for him to leave London before seeing her. For this is what he had intended to do. When he had sent the telegram a few hours earlier his mind was fully made up never to see her again. Why he could not tell, but the effect of his strange experience in Staple Inn was to make him believe that it would be best for him to wipe this fascinating woman from the book of his life. Her influence over him was so great that he felt afraid. While in her presence, even while she fascinated him, he could not help thinking of the fateful hours in Wendover Park, when Romanoff stood by his side, and paralysed his manhood.
But as he read her letter, he felt he could do no other than remain. Indeed he found himself anticipating the hour of her arrival, and wondering why she wished to see him.
He had come to London ostensibly on business connected with his probable candidature in Eastroyd, and as he had to see many people, he had engaged a private sitting-room in the hotel. To this room he hurried eagerly after breakfast the following morning, and although he made pretensions of reading the morning newspaper, scarcely a line of news fixed itself on his memory. On every page he saw the glorious face of this woman, and as he saw, he almost forgot what he had determined as he left Chainley Alley.
Precisely at ten o'clock she was shown into the room, and Dick almost gave a gasp as he saw her. She was like no woman he had ever seen before. If he had thought her beautiful amidst the sordid surroundings of the warehouse in the East End of London, she seemed ten-fold more so now, as slightly flushed with exercise, and arrayed in such a fashion that her glorious figure was setoff to perfection, she appeared before him. She was different too. Then she was, in spite of her pleading tones, somewhat masterful, and assertive. Now she seemed timid and shrinking, as though she would throw herself on his protection.
"Are you sure you are safe in coming here?" he asked awkwardly. "You remember what you told me?"
"You care then?" she flashed back. Then she added quickly, "Yes, I do not think anyone here will recognise me. Besides, I had to take the risk."
"Why?" he questioned.
"Because your telegram frightened me."
"Frightened you? How?"
"Because—oh, you will not fail me, will you? I have been building on you—and you said you were leaving London. Surely that does not mean that all my hopes are dashed to the ground? Tell me they are not."
Her great dark eyes flashed dangerously into his as she spoke, while her presence almost intoxicated him. But he mastered himself. What he had heard the previous night came surging back to his memory.
"If your hopes in any way depend on me, I am afraid you had better forget them," he said.
"No, no, I can never forget them. Did you not inspire them? When I saw you did I not feel that you were the leader we needed? Ah no, you cannot fail me."
"I cannot do what you ask."
"But why? Only the night before last you were convinced. You saw the vision, and you had made up your mind to be faithful to it. And oh, you could become so great, so glorious!"
He felt the woman's magnetic power over him; but he shook his head stubbornly.
"But why?" she pleaded.
"Because I have learned what your proposal really means," he replied, steeling himself against her. "I was carried away by your pleading, but I have since seen that by doing what you ask I should be playing into the hands of the enemies of my country, the enemies of everything worth living for."
"You mean the Germans; but I hate Germany. I want to destroy all militarism, all force. I want the world to live in peace, in prosperity, and love."
"I cannot argue with you," replied Dick; "but my determination is fixed. I have learnt that Mr. John Brown is a German, and that he wants to do in England what has been done in Russia, so that Germany may rule the world."
"Mr. John Brown a German!" she cried like one horror-stricken. "You cannot mean that?"
"Did you not know it?"
"I? Oh no, no, no! you cannot mean it! It would be terrible!"
She spoke with such passion that he could not doubt her, but he still persisted in his refusal.
"I have seen that what you dream of doing would turn Europe, the world, into a hell. If I were to try to persuade the people of this country to follow in the lines of Russia, I should be acting the part of a criminal madman. Not that I could have a tithe of the influence you suggested, but even to use what influence I have towards such a purpose would be to sell my soul, and to curse thousands of people."
She protested against his statement, declaring that her purposes were only beneficent. She was shocked at the idea that Mr. John Brown was a German, but if it were true, then it only showed how evil men would pervert the noblest things to the basest uses. She pleaded for poor humanity; she begged him to reconsider his position, and to remember what he could do for the betterment of the life of the world. But although she fascinated him by the magic of her words, and the witchery of her presence, Dick was obdurate. What she advocated he declared meant the destruction of law and order, and the destruction of law and order meant the end of everything sacred and holy.
Then she changed her ground. She was no longer a reformer, pleading for the good of humanity, but a weak woman seeking his strength and guidance, yet glorious in her matchless beauty.
"If I am wrong," she pleaded, "stay with me, andteach me. I am lonely too, so lonely in this strange land, and I do so need a friend like you, strong, and brave, and wise. And oh, I will be such an obedient pupil! Ah, you will not leave London, will you? Say you will not—not yet."
Again she almost mastered him, but still he remained obdurate.
"I must return to my work, Miss——You did not tell me your name." And she thought she detected weakness in his tones.
"My name is Olga Petrovic," she replied. "In my own country, when I had a country, I was Countess Olga Petrovic, and I suppose that I have still large estates there; but please do not call me by your cold English term 'Miss.' Let me be Olga to you, and you will be Dick to me, won't you?"
"I—I don't understand," he stammered.
"But you do, surely you do. Can you look into my eyes, and say you do not? There, look at me. Yes, let me tell you I believe in the sacredness of love, the sacredness of marriage. Now you understand, don't you? You will stay in London, won't you, and will teach a poor, ignorant girl wherein she is in error."
He understood her now. Understood that she was making love to him, asking him to marry her, but still he shook his head. "I must return to my work," he said.
"But not yet—tell me not yet. Forgive me if I do not understand English ways and customs. When I love, and I never loved before, I cannot help declaring it. Now promise me."
A knock came to the door, and a servant came bearing cards on a tray.
"Mr. Hugh Edgeware," "Miss Beatrice Edgeware," he read. He held the cards in his hands for a second, then turned to the woman, "I must ask you to excuse me," he said. "I have friends who have come to see me."
Olga Petrovic gave him a look which he could not understand, then without a word left the room, while he stood still like a man bewildered.
"Show them up," he said to the servant.
Count Romanoff sat alone in his room. On one side the window of his room faced Piccadilly with its great seething tide of human traffic, from another St. James's Park was visible. But the Count was not looking at either; he was evidently deep in his own thoughts, and it would appear that those thoughts were not agreeable.
He was not a pleasant-looking man as he sat there that day. He was carefully dressed, and had the appearance of a polished man of the world. No stranger would have passed him by without being impressed by his personality—a dark and sinister personality possibly, but still striking, and distinguished. No one doubted his claim to the title of Count, no one imagined him to be other than a great personage. But he was not pleasant to look at. His eyes burnt with a savage glare, his mouth, his whole expression, was cruel. It might seem as though he had been balked in his desire, as though some cruel disappointment had made him angry.
More than once his hands clenched and unclenched themselves as he muttered angrily, savagely, while again and again a laugh of vindictive triumph passed his lips. And yet even in his laugh of triumph there was something of doubt. He was perturbed, he was furious.
"But he shall be mine," he said at length, "mine! and then——"
But his tone lacked certainty; his eyes burnt withanger because he had not been able to accomplish his designs.
"It might be that he was especially watched over," he reflected, as though some beneficent Providence were fighting for him. "Providence! Providence! As though——!"
He started to his feet and began to pace the room. His stride was angry, his whole appearance suggested defeat—a defeat which he had determined to transform to triumph.
"Good! Evil!" he cried. "Yes, that is it. Good! Evil! And I have given myself over to evil, and I have sworn that evil could be made stronger than good! I have sworn to exemplify it, in the case of that young fool, Dick Faversham. I thought I should have accomplished it long ago but I have so far failed, failed!"
He still continued to pace the room, although apparently he was unconscious of the fact. There was a far-off look in his eyes, a look that almost suggested despair.
"Does it mean after all that right is stronger than wrong, that right is more eternally established in the world than wrong? That in the sweep of events the power of right is slowly but surely conquering and crushing the evil, that the story of what is called evolution is the story of the angel in man overcoming the beast?"
Again he laughed, and the laugh had a cruel ring in it.
"No, no; evil is triumphant. Nearly two thousand years have passed since the Man of Nazareth was crucified, and yet for years the devil has been triumphant. Europe has been deluged in blood, world hatreds have been created, murder has been the order of the day, and the earth has been soaked in blood. No, no; evil is triumphant. The Cross has been a failure, and Him who died on it defeated!"
He paused in his angry march around the room, and again he looked doubtful.
"No, no," he cried; "cruelty, lies, treason, have not triumphed. Germany is beaten; her doctrine thatmight was right—a doctrine born in hell—has been made false. After all this sword-clanging, all the vauntings about an invincible army, materialism, devilry, have failed. Germany is being humbled to the dust, and her militarism defeated and disgraced."
The thought was evidently wormwood to him, for his features worked convulsively, his eyes were bloodshot. It might seem that the triumph of right filled him with torture.
Presently he shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and lifted his hands above his head as though he would throw a burden from him.
"But that is not my affair," he cried. "It was for me to conquer that man, to make him my slave. I swore to do it. I had every chance, and I thought that he, young, ambitious, and subject to all human passions, would be an easy victim. He was no dreamer, he had none of the makings of an ascetic, much less a saint, and yet so far he has beaten me. He still lives what is called the clean, healthy life. He still mocks me. It might be that he is specially guarded, that some angel of good were constantly fighting against me, constantly defeating me."
The thought seemed to disconcert Romanoff. A look almost like fear swept over his features, and again something like despair came into his eyes.
"But no, I have other weapons in my armoury yet," he reflected. "He is no religious fanatic, no pious prig with ideals, he is still ambitious, still craves for all the things that humanity longs for."
A clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of six.
"He should soon be here," he reflected. "I told him not to waste a second."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a second later a man entered who gave the appearance of having come from a distance.
He was a mild, placid-looking creature whose very walk suggested that he was constantly making an apology for his existence. A creature not of highways, but of byways, a humble Uriah Heep sort of fellow who could act like a whipped cur in his desire to curry favour, butwho in his hour of triumph would show his fangs, and rend his victim without mercy.
"You are back to time, Slyme. Well, what news?"
By this time Romanoff was the great gentleman again—haughty, patronising, calm, and collected.
"Of course your honour has heard that he's in? I wired the moment I knew."
"Yes, I knew that before I got your wire. A servant in the hotel here told me the moment it was ticked off on the tape. Of course I expected that. Naturally it was uncertain, as all such things are. One can calculate on the actions of the few; but not on those of the many. Human nature is a funny business."
"Isn't it, your Excellency? It's a remark I've often dared to make; one can never tell what'll happen. But he's in; he's the Member for Eastroyd."
"With over a thousand majority."
"I've discovered that he's coming up to town by the midnight train from Eastroyd."
"Ah!" The Count's eyes flashed with interest.
"Yes, he seemed very much delighted at his victory, and is coming up I suppose to consult with other Members of his party."
"Of course he's delighted with his victory. For heaven's sake refrain from remarking on the obvious. Tell me about the election."
"What does your honour, that is, your lordship, want to hear about? What phase of the election, I mean?"
"You had your instructions. Report on them."
"Well, if I may say so," remarked Slyme apologetically, "although he has over a thousand majority, he has very much disappointed the people."
"Why? In what way?"
"He isn't so much of a firebrand as he was. The people complain that he is too mealy-mouthed."
"Less of a people's man, do you mean?"
"I don't say that quite. But he's more moderate. He talks like a man trying to see all sides of a question."
The Count reflected a few seconds, and then snapped his fingers.
"And his private life?" the Count questioned.
"As far as I could find out, blameless."
"Have the wealthier classes taken up with him at all?"
"No, not actively. But they are far less bitter towards him. They are saying that he's an honest man. I do not say that for myself. I'm only quoting," added the little man.
Romanoff asked many questions on this head, which the little man answered apologetically, as if with a desire to know his employer's views before making direct statements.
"There are generally a lot of scandals at a political election," went on the Count. "I suppose that of Eastroyd was no exception?" He said this meaningly, as though there were an understanding between them.
Little Polonius Slyme laughed in a sniggering way. "Polonius" was the name by which he was known among his friends, and more than once the Count used it when addressing him.
"I made many inquiries in that direction," he replied; "I even went so far as to insinuate certain things," he added with a covert look towards the Count. "I had some success, but not much."
But the Count's face was like a mask. Polonius Slyme could tell nothing of his thoughts.
"I did not think your lordship would be offended?" he queried with a cunning look in his eyes.
"Go on."
"I had some success, but not much."
"What were your insinuations about? Drink, drug-taking, debt, unfaithfulness to his class?—what?"
"Oh, there was no possibility of doing anything on those lines, although, as I said, there was some disappointment on the last head. But that's nothing. I reflected that he was a young man, and a bachelor—a good-looking bachelor." He added the last words with a suggestive giggle.
"I see. Well?"
"Of course he is a great favourite with the fair sex. By dint of very careful but persistent investigation I discovered that two ladies are deeply in love with him."
Romanoff waited in silence.
"One is the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, quite the belle of the town among the moneyed classes. I inquired about her. There is no doubt that she's greatly interested in him."
"And he?"
"He's been seen in her company."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, nothing. She would be a good match for him, that's all. There was a rumour that she had visited his lodgings late at night."
"Which rumour you started?"
"I thought it might be useful some day. As for the other woman, she's a mill girl. A girl who could be made very useful, I should think."
"Yes, how?"
"She's undoubtedly very much in love with him—after her own fashion. She possesses a kind of gipsy beauty, has boundless ambitions, is of a jealous disposition, and would stop at nothing to gain her desires."
"And is Faversham friendly with her?"
"Just friendly enough for one to start a scandal in case of necessity. And the girl, as you may say, not being overburdened with conscientious scruples, could be made very useful."
Romanoff reflected for some time, then he turned to Slyme again.