The same evening Laurence had a long and confidential conversation with Mrs. Purcell. He made known to her all his suspicions and theories, and the grounds upon which he based them. She listened attentively to all he had to say. Then she read through the newspaper reports, and once again scrutinized the portrait of Carson taken at Sandbeach. She prided herself upon the possession of a clear head and a logical mind, and she brought both to bear upon the case as Mallow presented it to her. She arrived at the conclusion that Carson was an actual impostor and a probable murderer--a stage further than that at which Mallow had been able to arrive.
"If you believe, as I do, that the man is an impostor," she argued, "surely he must be guilty of the murder also, else how could he have become possessed of the bangle and the wrist-buttons?"
"But, Mrs. Purcell, I cannot absolutely prove that he is an impostor, even though I firmly believe him to be one."
"Sir!" said the lady in her most impressive tone, "our human judgments are fallible, I admit, but with such evidence as is before us, there can be no possible doubt that the husband of Olive is not the man whose name he bears. She herself does not believe in him, and her reasons are in every respect sound; his dealings with her money, for instance; his silence regarding his early days in Hindoostan; his use of his right hand on several occasions when he forgot the part he was playing. The letter from Italy, too, is of great weight, seeing that the writer of it also wrote to the woman Trall. That is proved by the handwriting, which is in all respects identical. The letter to his wife, the man might possibly have dictated, but the peculiarly private nature of that which he wrote to the girl makes it highly improbable that any hand save his own was instrumental in penning it. Moreover, this is no left-handed writing, the letters are far too firmly formed. The right hand of the man must, therefore, have been uninjured, which again proves that he was an impostor. Now, although I am not actually prepared to swear in a court of law that this portrait is not the portrait of Mr. Angus Carson, yet I feel quite satisfied in my own mind that it is not, for the reasons which I have already given you."
"You make out an excellent case against him, Mrs. Purcell," said Mallow, "but it is only right to say that the man did know something about India."
"Naturally," she interrupted, "he would obtain whatever information was necessary for his purpose from his friend, Major Semberry."
"Then you agree with me in making Semberry an accessory?"
"Certainly. You know my opinion of Major Semberry, Mr. Mallow. He is a man utterly without conscience, without scruple, without religion. He cultivates the most extravagant tastes, while possessing means insufficient to gratify them. To place himself beyond the pinch of poverty I am convinced that he would hesitate at no crime--so long, of course, as he saw his way clear to avert the consequences."
"Well," said Laurence, "there is one method of throwing light on the matter which I would like to propose; it is that you permit me to bring Semberry here to you that you may tax him with this fraud to his face, and in my presence."
"By all means do so, Mr. Mallow. You may depend upon my acting with all discretion. In the mean time I will communicate with Olive at Sandbeach, and invite her to come to me as soon as she can. And, Mr. Mallow, permit me cordially to thank you for the infinite pains at which you have been to place me completely in possession of the facts of this very terrible matter. Together we will go into it, and see whether we cannot unravel what at present appears to be a mystery of the most complex order. Good-night, Mr. Mallow, good-night."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Purcell. I am afraid we shall find our task no light one."
"Not light, perhaps, but not impossible; and what is not impossible is always possible, is it not, Mr. Mallow?"
With this consolatory truism Mrs. Purcell dismissed her coadjutor and addressed herself to the task of writing to Olive. She did not tell her how much she knew of her story, but merely that she was aware of her husband having deserted her. She invited her to come at once to London, and urged the advantage of her being on the spot while affairs were being investigated. Mrs. Purcell rejoiced in her character ofdea ex machinâand poured forth pages of ponderous English such as would have done credit to the conduct of a political intrigue. The rôle appealed to her. She imagined herself a true Madame de Staël. Mallow could have chosen no better assistant.
He got no sleep that night. His mind was full of his projected visit to Semberry. In the morning he started off for Marquis Street, but found that, early as it was, Semberry had already gone out--on business, according to his valet, though as to the nature of the business the man maintained complete ignorance. Leaving word that he would return about one o'clock, Mallow wandered about aimlessly, until, bethinking himself that he was wasting valuable time, he determined to try his luck in Soho, and look up Drabble. He had no sooner turned into Poplar Street, than he came face to face with Semberry. Judging from his expression, the Major was in no very good tune. It was more than probable he had been calling upon Drabble, and the interview had not been to his liking.
"Good-morning, Semberry," said Mallow, blocking the way, "I'm glad to see you."
"Morning," he grunted, and made as to pass, a move which Mallow soon thwarted.
"I see you're in a hurry," he said amiably, "so I'll just walk a bit of the way with you. There is a friend of yours most anxious to renew your acquaintance."
"Very kind of him; who is he?"
"It is not a he, but a she--Mrs. Purcell of Bombay."
As was his custom when nervous, the Major's fingers sought his moustache.
"Oh, Mrs. Purcell," he said, with a desperate effort to appear at his ease, "what does she want?"
"To see you--and Carson, if you can bring him."
"Nothing to do with Carson now--better ask his wife 'bout him. As to m'self, no time to hang round old woman--leavin' town."
"Mrs. Purcell will be very sorry," said Laurence, smoothly. "Are you going abroad?"
"Don't know; depends. What makes you think so?"
"Well, I fancied perhaps you might be anxious to join Carson."
"Join Carson?" He stopped short and paled a trifle. "What do y' mean? Carson's on his honeymoon."
"Oh no, he isn't," retorted Mallow. "Carson's honeymoon is at an end; has been for two weeks or more. He is in Italy now."
"In Italy? Damme, how d'you know that?"
"Well, about a week ago he wrote to his wife from Florence. It would seem he has gone abroad to look after the money of which he has become possessed by his marriage."
"What! You don't tell me he's got the money with him?"
"I believe so. Mrs. Carson heard from the solicitor that he had sold the stocks and shares, to a large amount, and had transferred the funds to the Paris branch of the Crédit Lyonnais."
With effort Semberry repressed himself. A string of forcible epithets was obviously on the tip of his tongue. Although he was probably aware that Carson had left Sandbeach, it was evidently news to the Major that he and the money were together on the continent.
"Seems Carson and his wife don't pull," was all he said.
"I fear not," said Mallow, coolly. "In spite of the old adage, Carson seems to have preferred the maid to the mistress."
"What d'ye mean?" growled the Major, tugging savagely now at his moustache.
"I mean that the girl Clara Trall has joined Carson in Florence."
"It's a lie! She wouldn't dare----" Here the Major evidently thought he had said more than enough, for he stopped short.
"I am not accustomed to be told I am a liar, sir!"
"Beg pardon, Mallow; excuse, slip o' the tongue."
"And why should Clara Trall not dare?"
"Don't know," replied Semberry, uneasily; "shouldn't think a maid would dare clear out with her mistress's husband."
"I am afraid Clara is a bad lot, Major. Why did you recommend her?"
"Didn't. Mrs. Arne did."
"Who is Mrs. Arne?"
"Friend o' mine," snapped the Major, shortly. "'Scuse me, must be getting on. Kind regards to Mrs. Purcell. See her when I get back;" and the brave soldier, picking up his guilty conscience, under fire of Mallow's too-searching questions, fairly ran away.
Mallow decided to postpone his visit to Drabble. He had gained nothing of value from his brisk little interview with the Major. On the contrary, he feared he had given away a very definite piece of information, for he felt convinced that an hour ago Semberry had been ignorant of the fact that Carson and Clara were in Florence. He was fearful lest he should have aroused his suspicions in any way. He might, perchance, act upon the knowledge he had just obtained. Mallow determined he would have him watched. There and then he proceeded to a private inquiry office, of which he had informed himself in case of need. He asked for an agent to be placed at his disposal. The payment of a sum down secured this without difficulty, and in due course a personage--said by his employers to be one of the cleverest detectives in Europe--was told off to serve him.
In appearance, Hiram Vraik--for that was the man's name--might well have passed for one of the worst of the class he was employed in pursuing. He was assuredly a most villainous-looking creature. He was exceedingly small, and lithe as a ferret, his face was white and pasty, his ears were enormous, and his eyes red-rimmed as those of a rat. His crop would have done justice to any prison barber. He approached Mallow with a cringing, slimy politeness, which, coupled with his appearance, made him doubly repulsive. However, argued Mallow, dirty work needs dirty tools.
"I want you to watch a man," he said, when he had got Vraik to himself in the parlour of a public-house near at hand. "Here are his name and address. Now, listen, and I'll tell you all about it."
"Yes, sir; it's best to trust me all in all, sir. If I know everything I can do as much as any man, but if I don't--well, sir, I may as well hand you back your money straight off."
As he proceeded to relate the details of the case to Vraik, the little man's eyes lit up, and he became more rat-like than ever.
"It's a big job," he said. "But I'm your man, sir; and if I get there with it I'll expect to be mighty well paid."
"Oh, you'll be paid well enough, I promise you that," replied Mallow.
"Very good, sir; I know what I've got to do, and I'd better go and do it. Whatever this Major does, and wherever he goes, you shall know. I'll lose no time as soon as I've got anything to report. Whew! The Athelstane Place business! I am in luck!" And Vraik wriggled himself off.
"So, at last, you come to us!" roared Drabble, rubbing his hands.
"As you see," answered Mallow, equably; "though for me it is a leap in the dark."
"Never mind, man; there'll be plenty of light soon."
"Yes, the light of infernal machines and incendiary fires, I presume," retorted the neophyte.
Drabble rubbed his hands again and winked devilishly. "You shall know all our schemes as soon as you are fit to know them," said he, significantly.
"When will that be, may I ask?"
"Of that Madame Death-in-Life must judge."
"Oh, I thought you did not know that lady?"
"Nor do I--in Casterwell. In Soho it is quite another matter."
They were in a dingy, mean room of the upper story of No. 49, Poplar Street, Soho--a neighbourhood notorious for Anarchists--and pickles. Any longings after wealth were ruthlessly repressed here. A deal table, a few chairs, a bookcase filled with revolutionary literature, and fiery pamphlets in every European tongue, and a ragged chintz-covered sofa, with a hard and suspiciously round-looking pillow, was all the room contained by way of luxury. The dirty floor boasted no carpet or covering of any kind, and the iron shutters, by which the solitary window was protected, and a brace of revolvers reposing on the mantelshelf, added in no way to the cosiness of the apartment. In all the force of blacklead and whitewash the walls displayed fierce denunciations of many things, more particularly of the various forms of law and order. Dust was over everything, and in the corners cobwebs abounded. The triumph of Anarchy was here again the apotheosis of the unwashed--the worship of thesansculottes.
Mallow contrasted strangely with these surroundings. Near him lounged the doctor, sleek and pale, and still clothed in his invariable black. But this was not the hearty, would-be-genial doctor of Casterwell, but a savage, angry, vicious, Anarchical doctor, drunk with copious inhalations of the atmosphere around him--the atmosphere of organized disorder, of crime and ruffianism and bribery. This was the real Drabble. He was at home here. No one would have known him, save perhaps his wife. Mallow, as he looked at him, found himself pitying her. The sheer abandonment of the man revolted him.
"Well, and how are the turtle-doves getting on?" he asked vulgarly.
"If you are speaking of Mr. and Mrs. Carson," replied Mallow, "they have parted, I believe, and Carson has gone off to Italy."
"H'm," growled Drabble. "As a matter of fact Semberry told me so. The maid Clara has joined him, I hear."
"It is highly probable. Carson is a blackguard."
"He is worse than that, Mallow; he is a thief. I understand he has gone off with his wife's money."
Now it was quite clear to Mallow, that for "wife's money" he might with safety substitute "our share of the plunder;" but for the present he must keep that to himself. It did not do to be foolhardy, especially at No. 49, Poplar Street. So he gave the doctor no hint.
"Perhaps the word 'thief' is a trifle strong, doctor," was all he said. "After all, it is more a question of conscience--or, rather, lack of it--than anything else. No man with a spark of decency would have taken advantage of a position which gave him full possession of his wife's money, by virtue of the mere fact of her being his wife. Blackguard--my word--is I think the more applicable."
"He is a fool," said Drabble, fiercely; "but let him take care. I am not to be trifled with. I wonder what Trall will say to his niece bolting with Carson?"
"Oh," said Mallow, recalling Clara's letter; "then there is such a person as Jeremiah Trall."
"Of course there is; he is one of us. But how did you know him?"
"Mrs. Carson told me," remarked Mallow, carelessly. "Clara used to talk about her uncle."
"The fool!" muttered Drabble. "I always said that girl was not to trusted."
"Not to be trusted?" echoed Mallow. "Then she, too, is one of us?"
The doctor looked at him with something approaching a scowl. "Your wisest plan," he said, "is to ask no questions in this place."
"But you forget I am quite uninitiated yet," retorted Mallow. "I don't care about committing myself to a definite course unless I am quite sure what I am about."
"Do you know what the Jesuits do with their pupils?" asked Drabble, irrelevantly.
"Yes, as a rule, they make scoundrels of them."
"Rather say they make machines of them--machines: because they are blindly obedient to those set in authority over them. That is one of their rules. It is one of ours also. Once you join us, you neither think for yourself nor act for yourself, you become a machine."
"And if I transgress?"
"Once you have taken our oaths I don't think you will care to do that," rejoined the doctor, coldly. "If you do--well, I won't answer for the consequences."
"Are you a machine, Drabble?"
"No; I am one having authority. I direct--others execute."
"Really!" said Mallow. "And you fancy that a man of my capacity and experience will consent to become your tool. Understand, then, Drabble, if I join you I must know your ends, your aims, your ways, and your means. I also must be one having authority. On no other conditions will I join you. To speak plainly, I do not quite see why you want me. It is not for my money, for I possess none. It is not for my influence or my position, for what I have of either is not likely to serve you. I can only conclude, then, that it is in an intellectual capacity I am likely to be of use to you; yet you propose to place me in a position subservient to your own. No, my friend," and Mallow stood up, "if it is a fool you want, go out into the streets and choose. If you want a man, and a man with brains, I am ready; but I claim to be treated with the respect which is my due. If you cannot assure me that this will be, I must bid you good-day."
"Sit down, my dear fellow," said Drabble, hastily; "you know one cannot generalize in these sort of things, and that is what you have been doing. I quite agree with all you say, generally speaking. But whether it will apply to you individually, it is impossible to decide for the moment. Rest assured that you will have every opportunity of exercising your capacity. Ours is not a system of government under which the clever man is repressed."
"Government?" said Mallow. "I always understood that no government was the very essence of your being!"
"A common fallacy," replied the doctor, dryly, "on the part of many who misunderstand our aims. There is considerable method in our so-called madness. But Madame Death-in-Life will explain all this to you far better than I can. We shall see her very shortly."
As he spoke a distinctive rap came at the door, and on the invitation to enter being given by Drabble, a tall, bulky man, shabbily dressed, with a puffy red face, entered the room. His whole appearance was suggestive of alcohol in a severe form; but at his first words, Mallow recognized that he was a man of breeding. For the present he was quite sober, and he appeared to be in a bad temper--probably, Mallow thought, as a result of his unwonted condition.
"I beg your pardon, Drabble," he said in a refined voice, "I did not know you were----"
"Oh, I am not engaged to the extent of excluding you," said Drabble, sharply. "This is Mr. Jeremiah Trall, Mr. Mallow."
"Mr. Mallow?" echoed Trall, with a stare. (It was evident to Mallow that his thoughts straightway reverted to the report he had received from Clara.)
"A new recruit," explained Drabble, looking at him sharply. "But Mr. Mallow wishes to be quite sure of our aims before he finally consents to join us."
"Our aims are to make a heaven out of a hell," said Trall, taking the third chair. "That requires strong measures."
"Necessarily," replied Mallow; "one doesn't clean stables with rosewater."
"No, our methods are a trifle more forcible than that," chuckled Trall. "When we try this new----"
"There, there," interrupted Drabble, "that is quite enough. We will not go into details just at present."
Mallow could see even thus early that there was no love lost between these two. The alcoholic man scowled angrily at the doctor, and Mallow made a mental note of his attitude. He evidently stood in fear of his superior.
"What is it you want?" asked Drabble, after having reduced the man to silence.
"Madame wishes to see you," replied Trall, sulkily. "She did not know any one was with you."
"I am bringing this gentleman down to see her very shortly," said the doctor coolly. "You can go."
"One moment," cried Mallow, as Trall shuffled to his feet. "Have I ever seen you before?"
"Not that I know of."
"H'm. Your face seems familiar to me."
"Yes, it is the face of a sot," said Drabble, brutally--"not an uncommon sight."
"I have to thank you for making it so," stuttered Trall savagely. "I should not be what I am had I not come under your thumb. But take care, I may be one too many for you some day."
"This is not the first time you have threatened me," said Drabble; "take you care lest I make it the last. You drunken hound, clear out!"
"By the way, did you get your letter from Sandbeach?" asked Mallow of Trall, as he slouched towards the door with fierce resentment in his eyes.
"Eh, what?" cried Drabble, looking sharply from one to the other. "What letter?"
"Oh, merely a letter from Clara, saying she was leaving Mrs. Carson," answered Trall, hastily.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think it worth while."
"Everything is worth while that concerns Carson," rebuked Drabble. "Where is the letter, you fool?"
"In the fire; there were only half a dozen lines. But how do you know that Clara wrote to me?" added Trall, turning to Mallow.
"Well, she happened to drop her letter when about to post it. I picked it up, and naturally I saw the name and address."
"Oh, well, it was only a little letter--a very little letter," mumbled Jeremiah, and slipped out of the room.
"Little or big," roared Drabble after him, "you bring the next one to me. Come, Mr. Mallow, let us go and see Madame."
Mallow followed the doctor along a dark passage and into another room in the front of the house. Here at a window overlooking the street sat a pale little woman with dark hair arranged smoothly in bands. She wore a plain black dress without trimming or ornament of any kind. Her pallid face was bent intently over some wool-work she was knitting. She looked up when the two men came in, and rose to her feet.
"Mrs. Arne," said Drabble graciously, "this is our new recruit, Mr. Mallow."
Mallow turned pale and felt his heart beating wildly. In this woman, introduced as Mrs. Arne, he recognized the housekeeper of Althelstane Place.
As Mallow, at Drabble's elbow, stared at the demure little figure clothed in black, he realized that this was the fate controlling all things in connection with the affair he had in hand. Instantly he recognized in her the newspaper descriptions of the unknown housekeeper who had vanished so mysteriously and so completely from Athelstane Place. By name she had just been made known to him as Mrs. Arne, and he now learned that she and Madame Death-in-Life--the notorious Madame Death-in-Life who was dreaded throughout Europe--were one and the same person. He was face to face with the terrible woman with the terrible nick-name, the stormy petrel of Anarchy. At the mere rumour of her presence in their city, those in authority were wont suspiciously to look about them and doubly to safeguard their rulers. The Continental police would have given much to have had her safe in Monte Valerien, or Spandau, or Siberia. Hitherto she had always evaded them at the last moment--had thwarted their most zealous endeavours and carefully laid plans. She was Italian by birth, and had married an Englishman. She was now a widow and had made her husband's country her permanent home. As she sat before him now, so peacefully knitting, Mallow thought of Madame Defarge.
"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Mallow," she said in excellent English, with but little trace of foreign accent. "I have been expecting you for some time. You can go, doctor."
"But I want to----"
"You can go, doctor," repeated Mrs. Arne in the same unemotional voice. Without another word, Drabble, the bully, stole out of the room.
Mallow was amazed.
"It is necessary to preserve discipline here," said Madame, observing his expression. "Pray be seated, Mr. Mallow. If you do not mind, I will continue my knitting."
"I do not mind at all," replied Mallow, seating himself mechanically. He watched her firm, plump hands clicking the shining needles together as she wove her web of red wool-work.
She divined his thoughts. "You wonder at my employment," she said without a smile. "It is very feminine, is it not? Not quite in keeping perhaps, you think, with my reputation? But, you see, I am turning fiction into fact."
"Madame Defarge, I suppose you mean?"
She nodded. "A wonderful character in a wonderful book. The 'Tale of Two Cities' and your Carlyle's 'Revolution' are my favourite reading. What times, what people, what glory! I had rather work with guillotines than with bombs, but" (with a shrug) "what would you? We have improved on all that. I speak your tongue well do I not?"
"Excellently well, Madame; you are never at a loss for a word."
"I am never at a loss for anything, my friend," returned Madame Arne composedly. "But we must get to business. Tell me, why did you look so fixedly at me when you entered the room?"
"Madame, your celebrity----"
"Tell me the truth, please."
"Well, it was your name."
"As a celebrity?"
"No, as the lady who used Mrs. Dacre's house as the means of introducing Clara Trall to Mrs. Carson."
"Ah, so you know of that. You have been making inquiries. Why?"
"Because Clara has turned out badly, and has gone off to Italy with her mistress's husband."
"Quite so; I know it."
"From Major Semberry, I presume. Is he, too----"
"He is----what I please," answered Mrs. Arne with an odd look. "We will speak of him another time. So you are the man who is in love with Mrs. Carson! Oh, don't trouble to deny it. I know it. You made inquiries about me from Mrs. Dacre--on her behalf. A man does not take up a woman's burden--not a burden of this kind--unless he has something more than a platonic interest in her welfare."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Arne, but there are other subjects we can discuss more profitably."
"As you please. The subject has no interest for me; but I may explain that I purposely went to Mrs. Dacre's in the capacity of a dressmaker, that I might answer Mrs. Carson's inquiry from a good address. I was determined that she should engage Clara."
"As a spy?"
"Yes," admitted the woman, nonchalantly, "as a spy. It was necessary that I should have Carson watched."
"But your spy has betrayed you?"
"So much the worse for her. She shall die. How or when I have not yet determined."
Mallow shuddered. The woman repelled him. There was something uncanny in her bare statement of fact. Even a suggestion of the melodramatic would have relieved her assertion of its sheer brutality. But there was not a tinge of it. She merely stated that the girl should be killed, and went on knitting.
"You are not used to these things," she continued; "death is as nothing to us. To kill or to be killed, we are always ready."
"Have you no fear?" gasped Mallow.
"Of the law? No."
"Of God?"
"That is a matter between Him and myself."
"Ah, well," said Laurence, recovering his self-control, "we had better perhaps avoid anything approaching a theological discussion. But tell me one thing. Who is this Carson?"
"Why, who should he be."
"Well, he might, for instance, be impersonating the unfortunate man who was murdered in Athelstane Place."
Mrs. Arne's hands never stopped. Her colour never changed. "You have imagination, I see," she observed coldly. "That is a pity. It is apt to get people into trouble."
"Oh, as to that, I have trouble enough; and now that I have determined to join you, I shall probably have a good deal more."
"That is very possible. We are hunted like rats. Why do you wish to join us?"
"God knows," said Mallow, with a shrug.
"I also know. It is because Mrs. Carson will have nothing to say to you. It is in your despair you come to us, to throw your life away."
Mallow breathed more freely now. For the moment he had been unprepared. He had no excuse ready. He had relied upon the supreme egotism and enthusiasm of Drabble to get over any difficulty as to his intentions. But here was the most excellent of reasons already provided for him by Madame Death-in-Life herself.
Silently he acquiesced. She saw in him the foolish lover--rejected, dejected, yielding to despair. Mallow's silence convinced her she was right.
"You do not speak," she said, glancing at him. "Well, there is no need for you to do so. I am usually right in my conjectures. We have to thank Mrs. Carson for providing us with a promising brother."
Mallow protested. "I am not a brother yet," said he, emphatically. "And before I become one I must ask to know your exact aims, and the means by which you hope to accomplish them."
"Our aims!" said Mrs. Arne, laying aside her work. "We have but one aim--to establish the equality of man. The rich oppress the poor. There must be no rich, no poor, no oppressed."
"That, Madame, is absolutely impossible. Arrange it as you will to-day, you will be where you were to-morrow."
"I think not," replied Mrs. Arne. "We intend that each person shall work for the general good, and that he shall be paid by the State. If he refuse to work, then neither shall he be paid nor shall food be allowed to him. In the midst of plenty, he shall starve to death."
"A somewhat drastic arrangement, surely?" said Mallow.
"By no means. It is an absolutely necessary one. At any cost the lazy and the idle must be wiped out. Under such arégimeno man need starve whilst he is willing to work. His life will be in his own hands."
"And it is by the hurling of bombs and such-like missives you hope to bring about your millennium?"
"Mr. Mallow, the world and its rulers will not listen to us. So long as we are what those in power choose to call good citizens' the injustice, the great wrongs under which we suffer now, will remain unaltered. If we are to be heard, we must perforce make a hearing for ourselves. Supplication is useless, hopeless. By terror alone can we wrench the attention which is our right. That is why we resort to force; that is why you hear of bombs, Mr. Mallow. For the safety of their lives even a king, an emperor, must heed us. Persistence in that direction will in the end secure to us the attention which we claim--the attention which is our right. That will be the dawn of the new era, Mr. Mallow, for we shall conquer. Till then--but there," said Madame, resuming her knitting, "I have much to do. I must leave you. I will place you in the hands of an instructor from whom you will learn everything that is needful. Then you can come to me and say if you will join us or not. I hope you will. We want men with brains and money."
"Particularly money!" said Mallow, contemptuously. He was not to be convinced by all her rhetoric.
"I do not deny it; we cannot have too much."
"Was it not a pity, then, to lose Carson and his fifty thousand pounds?"
"We have not lost it or him yet," said Mrs. Arne, with a long breath. "Think you that Italy is in the moon that my arm cannot reach him!"
"Then you did intend to have that fifty thousand!"
"I did; it was my scheme and to a point, it has been a successful one."
"In that case," said Mallow, deliberately, "Major Semberry is with you, no doubt. Without him you would have been helpless."
"Major Semberry has not taken the oath," said Mrs. Arne coldly, "but he is one of us."
"How does he reconcile that with his allegiance to his sovereign?"
Mrs. Arne knitted rapidly. "You don't know our power," she said. "In every grade of society we have our adherents--yes, even in your army. I was introduced into Mrs. Dacre's house by a friend of the cause. I am not a dressmaker, but it suited me to assume that capacity for the moment. I told Semberry to give Mrs. Dacre's address to Mrs. Carson. If I could not have got into that house, I should have given another address. Mrs. Carson wrote, and her letter naturally was given to me. I replied, and secured for the girl the position I designed for her. A friend in society helped me there, and there are dozens of people who can place me in any position I choose. You don't know my power. But enough of this"--she rose and pressed an electric button. "I will introduce you to Monsieur Rouge. He will instruct you. I have other things to do."
That personage was not long in making his appearance.
A mere spectre of a man was Monsieur Rouge, with complexion, hair, and eyes of a painfully washed-out hue. A cadaverous, lantern-jawed, unholy looking person. In common with the generality of workmen of his nationality--he was French--Monsieur Rouge was addicted to dark blue. He wore trousers, blouse, and peaked cap all of that colour. He had a habit, almost equine, of blinking and glancing out of the corners of his eyes. He was evidently a nervous man, and seemed but poorly fitted for the bold and daring path he had chosen to follow. Mallow was surprised at his appearance, as he was at the fact that Mrs. Arne should have chosen him for his instructor. But that lady evidently knew what she was about. After a few curt and explicit directions, conveyed to M. Rouge in his own tongue, she introduced him formally.
"Mr. Mallow," she said, "this is M. Rouge; at least, that is the name by which he is known among us. He has been a member of the brotherhood for some three years. You will find him a most enthusiastic disciple of our cause."
"Vive l'Anarchie. A bas les tyrans," whispered M. Rouge in endorsement.
"Keep your enthusiasm for a more fitting occasion, my friend," said Mrs. Arne, as Mallow thought with somewhat unnecessary severity. "Go with this gentleman, and tell him all that is permitted to be known by one who has yet to take our oath. You," turning to Mallow, "will come to me when you have made up your mind. For the present, good-bye--or, rather, au revoir."
On the whole Mallow was interested in his Anarchistic friends. He possessed a goodly supply of the right sort of curiosity, and this newmilieuin which he found himself was unlike anything he had experienced before. He was groping in an under-world of fanaticism and crime premeditated, and it fascinated him not a little. He threw himself heart and soul into the whole question, and, in company with Monsieur Rouge, explored many queer corners, East and West. For the time he made these people's cause his own. They were a small minority, determined--ruthlessly determined--on becoming a majority, and he was curious as to the methods by which they intended to accomplish their end. Of necessity he was brought into contact with many creatures of low order; creatures often needlessly ragged and unkempt, he thought. He could only conclude that their reckless condition was of value to them as a perpetual reminder of the terrible wrongs under which they suffered. But to their fiery crusade against their better-dressed neighbours, and to their bloodthirsty plans for the removal of public buildings and public personages, Mallow lent a patient and ever-attentive ear. He was surprised to find their crusade directed against the aristocracy of intellect, as well as against that other and larger aristocracy of wealth and caste. It sufficed for a man to loom large on the horizon of public affairs--be it as warrior, orator, or inventor--for him to mark the bull's-eye for their aim. They were abominably indiscriminate. In truth, with this very aptly named Monsieur Rouge at his elbow, ever ready with some fresh diabolical inspiration of his turbulent brain, Mallow could not help likening himself to a modern Dante, bent on the exploration of a new and more terrible circle of hell, with a degraded Virgil for his guide.
But, though all very fine, this was not war, as the French say, and Mallow felt he was losing sight of his purpose. Olive was in London, safe under the wing of Mrs. Purcell, waiting patiently to see what Time and his endeavours on her behalf were to bring for her. She had taken Miss Slarge and Tui into her confidence, but for her hostess she had reserved a somewhat abridged version of her recent experiences. But, with one accord, all these ladies were consumed with feminine fire and virtuous indignation against her husband. He was a downright impostor, they declared, and no doubt he it was who had murdered the unfortunate Mr. Carson. They were strenuous in their endeavours to induce Olive to put the whole matter in the hands of the police. But to this she was not to be persuaded, although she went so far as to consult Mallow upon the advisability of such a course. He speedily convinced her that the case required a manipulation much more delicate than that which it was likely to receive at the hands of the police.
"Besides," said he, "once let the police take it up, and you will have all your details, large as life, in the columns of the morning papers, to say nothing of the evening ones, than which it is difficult to conceive a more direct method of courting failure, if not disaster."
"Still, I don't know that the straightest course is not the best course, after all," said Olive, judiciously. "Why not bring Major Semberry face to face with Mrs. Purcell, and insist upon an explanation?"
"For two reasons. First, the Major is keeping out of the way. Second, he will lie like Ananias to save himself from getting into trouble. No, Mrs. Carson, let my man continue to watch him, and when he is caught tripping--as he will be, mark me, sooner or later--then will be the time to drive him into a corner."
"Can you trust this man Vraik?"
"I think so. I have promised him a large reward if he pulls the case through to my satisfaction; and he is the kind of man to sell his miserable soul for money."
"He looks like a being of the lowest type," said Olive, who had seen Vraik.
"Then he looks what he is. It is a mere accident, of course, that he is with the law instead of against it. But I dare say he finds honesty is the best possible policy, so far as cash goes, which is all that concerns him. Have no fear, Mrs. Carson, money will keep Vraik true to us, if nothing else will."
"Unless these Anarchists find out what you are doing, and treat him still more liberally."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of their find-out," laughed Mallow. "Mrs. Arne and he gang are by no means so clever as they fancy they are. She, particularly, is blinded by her own egotism. Besides, even if they did get at Vraik, they could not bribe him. They want money badly, these people; in fact it was to your fifty thousand pounds they looked to put them in funds. Unfortunately, Carson--we may still call him Carson--has gone off with the plunder."
"Do you think these Anarchists will kill him, as Mrs. Arne threatened?"
"In the end, no doubt; but not till the money is safe in their hands. At present it lies in Carson's real name, whatever that may be. It is possible they may induce him to hand it over, but it will only be to save his life. While he has that money he is safe enough. It would not serve them to kill the goose with the golden eggs. These people may not be so clever as they imagine, but they are not fools enough for that."
"Mr. Mallow, I tremble when I think of the dangers to which you are exposed. Don't these wretches suspect you?"
"No!--that is, one of them does. Jeremiah Trall looks queerly at me at times, because he has read Clara's report of our first conversation. I fancy he is suspicious that it is something more than zeal for the cause that has caused me to join. But he is safe enough. He hates Drabble, and has told him that the letter is burnt. He is not likely to trouble me. Besides, he is, I think, but a very lukewarm member of the brotherhood."
"I don't trust any of them."
"Nor I! But I am safe so far, and they are not likely to give vent to any of their explosive propensities here in London, and so run the risk of being turned out of the only country in Europe which shelters them. But I must be off, Mrs. Carson. Rouge is waiting for me round the corner."
"Oh, Laurence, do take care of yourself!" implored poor Olive, anxiously.
"Be sure of that, for your sake," and Mallow left the house, sighing to think that he had now no right to say even so much to Olive. Whosoever Carson was, Olive was his wife. "And yet"--he started as the thought crossed his mind--"was she his wife? Was it not possible her marriage might be illegal? If the man were an impostor, he had not made her his wife under his real name--marriage under a false name is no marriage, surely? By Jupiter! I'll lose no time in taking Dimbal's opinion about this," muttered Mallow to himself. "There may be some way of releasing her from that scamp's clutches, after all. But the money will have to go. Well, let it go; she will gladly pay even fifty thousand pounds for her freedom."
Round the corner--that is to say, in the back of a convenient little public-house--M. Rouge, the devil's advocate, was waiting for Mallow. It was late--after seven o'clock--and Laurence needed no clock to tell him it was dinner-time. But that day he had received a note from Rouge begging for an appointment at this especial hour. He felt obliged to keep it, lest the man might wish to say something important. As colourless and shrinking as ever Rouge stood up, cap in hand, when Laurence entered. "I am glad to see Monsieur," he said in French. "Is it that Monsieur is aware that Madame desires he should come to the great meeting next week?"
"No," replied Mallow, carelessly; "what for?"
Rouge spoke again in the husky whisper he usually affected, and looked steadily at Laurence. "It is to take the oath," he said. Laurence winced.
Rouge saw his momentary hesitancy, and smiled in that uncanny fashion of his, which often caused Mallow to think he was not quite right in his head.
"It is not too late, if Monsieur is afraid," said he, with a shrug and a sneer.
"Monsieur is not afraid," retorted Mallow sharply; "but Monsieur is wise enough to consider all things before committing himself past recall. When does the meeting take place?"
"On Wednesday next, Monsieur!"
"That is a week hence. Where?"
"In the cellar of the house in Poplar Street, Monsieur."
"In the cellar?" repeated Mallow, much surprised. "Will that be large enough?"
Rouge laughed. "Oh, Monsieur does not know all the holes in which we foxes hide. Holy Blue! it must not be that he know before he swears to be true, for he might speak to the police." The wretch's expression was feline as he whispered the last word. "But this cellar! it is a great one--c'est énorme! Madame had it made, Madame preferred it. If the police came! piff-paff! whirr! Houp-là!" he pointed upwards.
"I see! we dance on a volcano," said Laurence, uneasily. Rouge nodded. "We would all die; the best and the worst."
"Sacrifice your own lives?"
"Yes, and those of others, Monsieur. When we take the oath we are already as dead. Let Monsieur reflect."
"Monsieur has reflected," said Laurence, giving the man money. "I shall be at Poplar Street next Wednesday. At what time?"
"Nine of the evening. It will be a great meeting, a grand meeting, and Monsieur will take the oath."
Mallow nodded. "Yes, Monsieur will take the oath," he repeated, and, after a second inquiring look, Rouge, with the money in his pocket, glided out of the room. The cat-like movements of the man, his glistening eyes and sibilant whispers, inspired Mallow with nothing but repulsion. Still he was kind to him, and, knowing the poor wretch often went without a meal, frequently gave him the price of one. Whether Rouge was grateful Mallow knew not, but he gave no sign of gratitude, and watched the young man unceasingly. He never told him his real name, nor spoke of his past in any way. His conversation, for the most part, consisted of extracts from revolutionary pamphlets, imprecations upon those in power, and expressions of jubilation for the day when a tide of blood should roll over Europe. To Mallow he was a veritable creature of nightmare.
On leaving this red-hot destroyer of human civilization, Mallow walked quickly to his lodgings in Half-Moon Street. The walk did him good. It cooled his blood and cleared his brain. As he passed by Hyde Park he noticed he was being followed. A man was dogging him like a shadow, pausing when he paused, and following him steadily at no great distance. Brave as he was, Mallow felt a qualm. He wondered if the Anarchists, suspecting him of treachery, were having him watched. He felt that suspense was worse than danger, so he determined to right-about face and know the worst at once. He turned up a side street for half a dozen yards. Then he faced round and walked back. By this manœuvre he almost ran into the arms of his follower.
"Jeremiah Trall!" exclaimed Mallow, recognizing him in the lamplight. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"
Trall looked round swiftly, and beckoned Mallow into the comparative darkness of the side street. "I wish to speak with you privately," he said in his refined voice. "I am afraid of being watched."
"Come to my rooms, then."
"No," replied Trall, "they would follow. My life would not be safe. Better here." He led Mallow up some distance into a gloomy corner. "Mr. Mallow," he said, sinking his voice, "why are you joining us?"
"What is that to you?" asked Mallow, fencing.
"You have some scheme in your head, and I wish to know it. You are no true Anarchist; you don't care two pins about the cause."
Mallow reflected. The man might be trying to trap him into some incautious speech, duly to be reported to Mrs. Arne. Trall guessed the cause of his hesitation and laughed.
"You may as well tell me," he said; "I know so much about you, that I may as well know the rest."
"What do you mean, Trall?"
"That letter of Clara's. She reported to me all that passed between you and Mrs. Carson. You are bent on dissolving that marriage and getting back the money."
"Well, suppose I am. I can do that and still be true to the cause."
"No, you can't, Mr. Mallow. Carson was married to Miss Bellairs to get that money for the cause."
"Then the husband of Miss Bellairs is not really Carson."
"No, he is not. He is a tool in the hands of this infernal Drabble, as I am."
"What is this man's name--his real name?" asked Mallow.
"I don't know! I swear I don't know. Hush! I can't go on speaking to you here; they have spies everywhere. But I just want to tell you that no one but myself read that letter, and that it is in the fire. I know you are not in earnest for the cause, and I am glad of it."
"And why, may I ask, are you glad of it? You are one of them."
"I am not!" denied Jeremiah, fiercely. "I am a drunken fool under the thumb of Drabble. I wish to God the cause was at the bottom of the sea, and Drabble kicking his heels in gaol--or the scaffold, if I could only get him there. I had a position once Mr. Mallow, I am an outcast now, solely through Drabble, who has been the curse of my life. He treats me like a dog; but a dog can bite, and bite him I will when he least expects it. He has ruined me; he has brought my niece, Clara, into his cursed schemes. She, too, is under his thumb. Oh, my God! If only you knew my life's history, you would pity me. Some day I'll tell it to you, if only to show you how lost a man can become, body and soul. Drabble is a devil--curse him! Hush! don't speak; I'll go--I'll go. I only wanted to tell you that the secret of your real intentions is quite safe with me. If you can ruin Drabble, and with him that stony-hearted Jezebel, do it--do it, I say. Tread them under foot--make them suffer as I have suffered, as they have made me suffer."
Trall, gripping Mallow's hand, shook it violently, and disappeared round the corner of the street.
Mallow was too much astonished to follow him.
He walked on home. Almost at his doorstep a hand was laid upon his arm. He turned to see the villainous face of Vraik smirking at him.
"I've come to report, sir," whined the spy. "I've seen Major Semberry in conversation with a light-haired, light-bearded man."
"Who is he?"
"Francis Hain, sir!--the man who was concerned in the murder. I'm sure of it."