Olive and Aldean could not but confess themselves well satisfied with the results of their journey. Their achievement had been very tangible. Not only had they extracted from these prime movers of the conspiracy a full and clearly-set-forth confession, but they were in a position comfortably to contemplate repossession of the money itself. In the space of two days they had done this, and, as they now sat at luncheon, they could not refrain from mutual congratulation. The only thing about which there was any doubt in their minds was the wisdom of accepting from Boldini the cheque for thirty thousand pounds. In truth, Aldean, now that the pair had flitted, blamed himself heartily for having done so. He was a trifle young and inexperienced--more particularly in the shady financial tactics, to be expected from people such as he was dealing with--and, at the moment, it did not occur to him that the risk he ran in taking Boldini's cheque was considerable, seeing that there was really nothing to prevent the man bolting right away. Certainly he had confessed that he had no money; but Aldean realized now that either this obstacle had not proved insurmountable or that it had not existed. Long habit had made him so accustomed to look upon cheques as equivalent in value to the sum they represented, he decided to dismiss the uncomfortable sensation that was creeping over him, and to hope for the best. He said nothing more about it to Olive.
"And now, Lord Aldean," said that young lady, joyfully, "we can return home. You, no doubt, will be as glad as I to do that?"
"You can measure my pleasure by your own, Miss Bellairs; we are both in the same galley, I think."
Olive blushed at this allusion to her feeling for Mallow, and thereby, of course, only accentuated its truth.
"When shall we start?" she asked.
"To-night, by the 9.30 express," said Jim, promptly, "unless you want to have another look round the city before you go."
"I would rather get back to Casterwell, Lord Aldean. Let us get away to-night. There is nothing to detain us--except that cheque. What about that?"
"Oh, that's all right, Miss Bellairs. I sent a wire through the bank this morning to Paris. They'll have a reply this afternoon. But are you sure you can bear the fatigue of another long journey so soon?"
"Oh yes; I'm quite recovered now."
"In that case, I'll drop in at Cook's and get the tickets. We'll return in glory, bringing our sheaves with us. Mrs. Purcell shall deliver an address in her best Johnsonese, and Tui shall oblige on the piano with 'See the Conquering Heroine Comes."
"Oh no," protested Olive; "you have done the work. Tui shall hold to the original text. But, seriously," she added, stretching out her hand, which Jim grasped warmly, "I give you my best and most sincere thanks, Lord Aldean, for the great kindness you have shown me. I shall never, never forget your good humour and attention, and all your hard work on my behalf."
"Oh, please, please don't, Miss Bellairs," protested Jim, flushing. "Only too jolly glad things have turned out so well. Can't help being sorry I didn't kick Boldini, though; I promised Tui I would, you know."
"I am very glad you didn't. So abject a creature doesn't merit even a kick from you. By the way, is Major Semberry returning to England?"
"What, to fall into the clutches of his Anarchistic friends? I think not. He knows better than to do that. India's his goal. That's where he's making for. Even Mrs. Arne can't reach him there. But what's the use of bothering about any of them now? Let 'em all go to Jericho, or any human rubbish-heap they fancy, for that matter. Will you come out with me, Miss Bellairs, and see about the telegram and tickets?"
"No; I think I'll stay in and devote myself to Major Semberry's confession."
"Oh, you'll enjoy that, I'm sure. It's like the concluding chapters of a sensational novel. I'll leave you to read it, then, while I see about these things."
After he had gone, Olive settled herself in a comfortable chair--that is to say, as comfortable a chair as is to be had in that country--by the window, and plunged eagerly into Semberry's confession. Jim having promised that the statement should be kept strictly private, the Major had not been at all half-hearted about it, but had set forth his iniquitiesin extenso. Indeed, his vanity would seem to have led him to make the most of his misdoings. As a human document, the confession of Major Horace Semberry was well worth perusal. It ran somewhat after this fashion:--
"I am one of those unfortunate devils who have extravagant tastes and no money with which to gratify them. I was brought up extravagantly by an extravagant father; went from an extravagant school into an extravagant regiment; and have had my tastes so fostered by luxury that it is absolute pain for me not to satisfy their cravings in every way. I am always in debt, and never out of difficulties, and I would willingly dispense with the necessaries of life if only I could procure its luxuries. By nature I am not a bad man. It is the want of money that has induced me to do many things I would not otherwise have done. It led me from borrowing to swindling; but I have stopped short at that. If I am accused of murder, I am wrongly accused. Angus Carson was not killed by me. By whom he was killed I know no more than the man in the moon. Four or five years ago, while on leave in London, I met with Dr. Drabble. He is about as big a scoundrel as ever deserved the gallows. He is, moreover, an Anarchist, and by means of his dupes in society--of whom there are many--he contrives to mix with very good people. To do him justice, he hates and despises them all, but 'for the good of the cause'--words which are never off his lips--he feigns an interest in those with money or position, solely that he may recruit his infernal army of destroyers. Somebody once called Drabble 'a wrecker of humanity,' and the title fits him well enough, though it by no means does justice to his devilish ingenuity and wickedness. Why he should approach me with friendly advances I could not understand at the time, but when I came to know him I learned the truth. When he likes, Drabble is a fascinating man, and by finding out the weak spot in people's characters he usually contrives to net them somehow or other. He soon found out my weak spot--want of money--and insisted on being my banker. Like a fool, I borrowed at first a little, then more and more, until I was so deep in his debt that he had it in his power to force me to leave the army. He was not wealthy himself, and I was always puzzled to know how he came by his money. When I was completely in his power he told me. He was an Anarchist, he said, and the money he lent me was taken from the funds of the Brotherhood. To repay that money and something more, he suggested that I should help him in a scheme of his for obtaining a sum of fifty thousand pounds. This was the story he told me:--It appeared that at Casterwell, where Drabble was the parish doctor, there lived a young lady named Miss Bellairs, who, by a family arrangement, was to marry one Angus Carson by name. This man she had never seen. Miss Bellairs--as the doctor had discovered in some way--was possessed of fifty thousand pounds. On her marriage this money was to be paid over to Carson (her husband). Drabble's scheme was this: He knew that I came from India, and was returning there, hence the reason of his friendship. He proposed that I should make the acquaintance of Dr. Carson and his son Angus, and, when the latter came to England to marry Miss Bellairs, that I should contrive to accompany him. I was to introduce Carson to Drabble, and let him persuade the young man to join the Brotherhood, so that he (when married) should hand over the money for their benefit. 'Become intimate with Carson,' said Drabble, 'make yourself indispensable to him, and when you bring him to England introduce him to me. I'll do the rest.' Seeing that Drabble could easily have introduced himself when the young man arrived at Casterwell, I naturally asked why he wished to employ me as a go-between. To this he answered that it was his desire Carson should join the Anarchists before seeing Miss Bellairs; that is, before he went to Casterwell at all, as, were he to fall in love with the girl, which, considering she was both pretty and attractive, was more than probable, he might point-blank refuse to join Drabble in his scheme for the regeneration of mankind. To make a long story short, I agreed to take part in the conspiracy provided I received twenty thousand pounds out of the fifty, but I swear solemnly that neither at the first interview nor at any subsequent one with Drabble, was there any mention of murder. I was to bring Carson home; I was to introduce him to Drabble, and when his enthusiasm had been roused sufficiently to induce him to hand over the fortune which he would acquire by marriage, I was to receive twenty thousand pounds. Is there any roguery in such a scheme?--I think not.
"Shortly after making this arrangement I returned to India, and for some months I had to pay with hard work for my holiday. I was compelled so to attend to my duties that I had no chance of seeing the Carsons. However, I made inquiries, and learned that the doctor was a recluse somewhere up in the Hills, and that he kept his son constantly under his own eye--to educate him for Miss Bellairs, I presume. After several disappointments, extending over twelve months, I obtained leave of absence, and started out on a shooting expedition in the neighbourhood of this modern hermit. As I made it my business to become acquainted with him, it was not long before I attained my object; how, there is no need for me to explain. I became very friendly with Dr. Carson, also with his son, and in time the friendship ripened to intimacy. I got on better with the doctor than with Angus. The latter was a solemn prig, I thought, with the most Puritanical ideas. Still I adapted myself to his humour, and I think he liked me fairly well; but it was no easy task to break down his stiff reserve. For two or three years I visited regularly the elder Carson, until I became so old and so good a friend in his eyes that one day he told me--what I already knew, of course--about Miss Bellairs and her fortune. I suggested that, as Angus was still young, the possession of so large a sum of money might lead him into dissipation, and I further suggested the advisability of some one accompanying him to England, so that there might be at least some check upon him there. Dr. Carson approved of my idea, and when he died, about a year afterwards, he made Angus promise that I should accompany him to Europe. At once I wrote to Drabble and assured him of my success, after which I left India for London with my charge. So far all had gone well. Lord Aldean informs me that Mrs. Purcell wrote to her sister a full description of Carson, of his looks and dress and priggish conversation, and of the sacred bangle he wore on his right wrist. I hated that bangle. It seemed to me effeminate and foolish. But it would not come off, owing to Carson's swollen and diseased hand, and he refused to have it removed. I had written to Drabble about this hand being diseased, and, when thePharaoharrived at Brindisi, I found a letter from him containing the programme of the plot. That letter I kept, and now attach to this confession, at Lord Aldean's request. Drabble, from my description of the state of Carson's hand, declared that an operation would be necessary, and suggested that I should state to the young man that he (Drabble) was a skilful surgeon, who would perform it. If Carson consented, I was to take him to a house in Athelstane Place, and there introduce him to Drabble as the surgeon. Drabble, on the excuse of the hand, engaged to keep Carson there for some weeks, and hoped, by his own persuasions and those of Mrs. Arne (another Anarchist), to inspire Carson with a desire to benefit humanity. He and Mrs. Arne hoped to talk Carson into a state of red-hot enthusiasm, so that he might take the oath to the Brotherhood. Once he did so, and bound himself to this band of wild fanatics, he would have to part either with his money or his life. Drabble and I and Mrs. Arne were in great need of this money, but there was no suggestion that the goose with the golden eggs should be killed. I followed closely the directions in Drabble's letter. I talked to Carson about the necessity of getting his hand cured, and said that I knew a skilful surgeon called Mr. Francis Hain (the name supplied to me by Drabble), who could cure it. Carson, whose hand gave him pain, readily agreed to try the effect of an operation, and it was arranged between us that I should take him to Mr. Hain's house on our arrival. From Plymouth I wrote to Drabble advising him of this, and when thePharaohdocked, I first took Carson and his luggage to the rooms in Marquis Street, which I had already engaged, and afterwards to Athelstane Place. The luggage, including the sandal-wood chest, was left at my rooms, and with only a small portmanteau Carson arrived--at night--at the so-called Hain's house. Mrs. Arne was the housekeeper, Drabble the surgeon under the name of Hain, and all was highly respectable. Carson had no suspicions; and when Drabble said that he would have to remain in Athelstane Place for at least three weeks, while his cure was being effected, he readily agreed to do so. He gave me a letter to post to Miss Bellairs, telling her how through this operation he was detained; but, of course; I destroyed this. I left Carson in Athelstane Place, and I returned to my rooms in Marquis Street. That was the last time that I saw the poor fellow alive.
"A day or so afterwards I was hurriedly summoned to the house in Soho by Drabble and Mrs. Arne. With much agitation they declared that Carson was dead--had been murdered. I asked with horror if they were guilty. Both denied it in the strongest manner. Carson, they said, had been left alone on the previous night, as they were both obliged to attend to some Anarchistic business. When they returned they found him dead. On examination, Drabble discovered that death had been caused by a knitting-needle thrust into the man's heart. It had evidently been taken from some wool-work of Mrs. Arne's, which had been left in the drawing-room, where the body had been found. Mrs. Arne searched the house, but could find no one; the doors were all closed, the windows also. However, in Carson's bedroom she discovered his portmanteau open and the contents tossed about, as though the murderer had been searching for something. Both declared again that they did not know who had killed Carson, and in the end--seeing that they had no reason for murdering the man--I believed them.
"I thought the whole conspiracy was at an end. Not so Mrs. Arne or Drabble. The doctor produced the bangle, which he had obtained by cutting off Carson's hand at the wrist, and declared that Mrs. Arne's nephew, Carlo Boldini, who greatly resembled Carson, could impersonate the dead man, and wear the bangle. At first I refused; then, as I was in desperate straits for money, I agreed. Carlo was called in, and told that he was to represent a man called Angus Carson, wear the bangle, and marry Olive Bellairs. That done he was to hand over the money to Drabble and myself. Being already married to Clara Trall, he declined at first to act the part; but his aunt forced him to do so in the end. It was not till long after this that Carlo knew of the murder of Carson at all.
"We dressed him in Carson's clothes, taken from the sandal-wood chest, but afterwards, on reading the leader in theMorning Planet, we changed these clothes for new ones, lest the scent should arouse suspicion. The bracelet was placed upon his wrist, and I instructed him in Carson's history, manner of speech, and action. It took me some time to train him in; but at last he was turned out with so close a resemblance in appearance and personality to Carson, that he might well have been taken for the dead man's double.
"I then accompanied him to Caster----"
Just as Olive reached this part of the confession, Lord Aldean, very red in the face, entered the room hurriedly.
"Here's a pretty kettle o' fish!" he cried, "Carson's cheque's no good. I'm very much afraid we've lost that thirty thousand."
"Lost it!" cried Olive, starting up. "Is the money not then in Paris?"
"No; not to Boldini's credit, at all events. Bank have received a reply to their wire, saying that the money was withdrawn a fortnight ago, and the account closed. Not a cent has the beggar got at the Crédit Lyonnais. The cheque is mere waste-paper. They either have the money, with them, or have transferred it to the place they are bound for. What a--what a fool I was! I might have known there was something dicky up the brute's sleeve when he gave in so meekly. They didn't mind dropping Semberry's share, but they were determined to stick to their own. What an ass the devil must have thought me! I fear we shall have a bit of a job to trace them now."
Here the presence of Olive must be held responsible for the string of peculiar sounds proceeding from Aldean. They were comparable to nothing, and cannot be expressed in type.
"Never mind," said Olive, soothingly. "At any rate, we return with twenty thousand and the confessions. Half a loaf is better than none. We have lost much, but, on the other hand, we have gained more than I----"
A knock at the door interrupted her, and a waiter entered with a telegram for Lord Aldean. It proved to be from Tui.
"Come back at once. Mallow in danger," read Aldean, blankly.
Olive turned grey, and literally dropped into her seat. "The Anarchists!" she cried with a gasp. "Oh, Lord Aldean, we must go back at once."
"But the thirty thousand pounds, Miss Bellairs?"
"What do thirty, forty, a hundred thousand pounds matter if Laurence is in danger?" cried Olive, excitedly. "We must not lose an hour. God grant we may not be too late."
"Amen to that," said Aldean, gloomily.
By ten o'clock that night they were on their way to London.
Clothed, and in his right mind, Hiram Vraik sat in the bare room, which he and his brother-tenant grandiloquently termed "The Office."
He was absolutely at a loss to account for his employer's disappearance. For several days he had called regularly at Half-Moon Street, only to be told as regularly that Mr. Mallow was still absent. The porter of the chambers was not alarmed by Mr. Mallow's continued failure to put in an appearance, as that young gentleman was most irregular in his comings and goings. But Vraik's reasoning differed from the porter's, perhaps because he knew more than the porter. Mallow was involved with a dangerous gang of Anarchists; and it was always possible, indeed probable, that some incautious speech or misguided confidence might get him into trouble. The more Vraik reflected on this possibility the stronger became his belief that Mr. Mallow was now in difficulties--up to his neck in them.
"He'd hev tole that young lord chap if he'd bin goin' to stop away," said Vraik, stroking his newly-shaven chin; "but the lor' chap he tole me to git Mr. Mallow's orders nex' day, so he don' know nothin', an' he's gone arter the Major cove, as I foun' out by follerin' him to the stashun. But Mr. Maller! here's a rum go."
Later on Vraik put things in this way before his partner, a heavy-jowled, coarse-faced, military ramrod, who answered publicly to the name of Serjeant Jorran, privately to the endearing appellation on the part of Vraik of "m'pal."
"It's a rum go this, m'pal," said the little man, gravely; "an' I'm blest if I knows what's come t'him."
"He may have gone abroad with Lord Aldean," suggested the sergeant.
"He ain't. I sawr the lor' chap orf at Victorier, an' he went with a gal. No, m'pal, I'll lay any odds as them revolutionary busters hev laid Mr. Maller by the heels."
"Why don't you find him, then?" said Jorran, tartly; "the job's in your hands, and it's a paying one. If Mr. Maller doesn't turn up we'll lose the money."
"I knows that, m'pal--none better; an' I'm looking for him proper. Mr. Maller's bein' makin' free of that crib in Popl'r Street, an' I dessay he's got onto trouble there."
"Can't you find out his whereabouts from some of these Anarchists?"
"I'm goin' this very minit to pump one of 'em," said Vraik, looking at his watch; "a swipy ole cove called Trall. Mr. Maller, he interdooced me to him, an' tole me t'look arter him. Th' cove's loose in the shingle, so I may get somethin' out of him."
"Has this man Trall anything to do with the Poplar Street den?"
"He's shoe-black and bottle-washer there, I thinks," replied Vraik, jumping up. "I'd like to fin' all about that crib, I would, an' put a stop to their blowin's up. There'd be noospaper pars and lots of coin in a job like that."
"It isn't a bad idea," said Jorran, reflectively; "keep your weather-eye open, Vraik, and let me know when I can sail in to help."
Vraik winked and whistled through his teeth, after which pantomime he swaggered into the street, conscious of an exceptionally smart appearance. But he never promenaded the main thoroughfares. Publicity was contrary to his principles of business. Like the rat he was, he slunk through alleys and by-streets, down passages, and into disreputable quarters, until he found himself in Poplar Street. Here he strolled casually past No. 49, and took a stealthy survey of its battered front. Then he dived into the squalid depths of Soho, to cut the trail between himself and Poplar Street, and came to the surface in the greasy little parlour of a public-house in Bloomsbury. Here Jeremiah Trall, dissipated, but still gentlemanly of aspect, was seated at an oilcloth-covered table with a glass of whisky before him.
He had arrived at his "cross-drop," and was in no very good humour when his visitor sneaked into the dingy room.
"I have finished three glasses while waiting for you," said he, in a complaining voice, "so you will have to pay. I have no money."
"Y'never have anything except a thirst," replied Vraik, sitting carefully down on a horsehair sofa. "Lanlor', 'nother Scotch cole, for this gentleman, and gin for me--smart as y'know how."
Provided with such refreshment, the two men came to business; that is, Vraik did, for Trall's energies were in the main devoted to a dreamy contemplation of the liquor before him.
"I'm glad you've turned up, Mr. Trall," said Vraik, raising his glass; "here's m'respec's t'you. Now you an' me's got to tork. D'want t'make money?"
"I should not mind," replied Trall, on whom the fourth glass was now exerting its soothing influence. "How can I earn it?"
Vraik came to the point at once. "By tellin' me 'bout Mr. Maller," said he, bluntly.
The question had a paralyzing effect on Trall. He dropped his glass and his jaw at the same time, turned a dingy yellow colour, and cast a terrified glance round the four corners of the room.
"I--I--I do not know anything about Mr. Mallow," he gasped.
Vraik's eyes glittered, and he lifted a lean admonitory forefinger. "Mr. Maller he interdooced us pals, an' he tol' you I was helpin' him with this case as you knows of; so I arsks you agin, ole cove. Where's Mr. Maller?"
"I--I don't know!"
Vraik still shook the warning finger. "Lyin' agin, an' at yr'age, I'm ashamed of y'. I noo y' was an Anarchist, but not----
"Hush!" entreated Trall, with another glance round. "Some one may hear!"
"Not they, ole cove! there ain't none of 'em about here."
"You don't know--you never know," moaned Trall, shaking and white. "They hide everywhere--they see everything. They listen and punish."
"Lor'! t' 'ear y' tork one 'ud think this was Africay."
"It is worse much worse. There men fight openly; here the Brotherhood stabs in the dark. Hush! Oh, hush!"
"Have they stabbed Mr. Maller in th' dark?"
"No; he is safe, quite safe!"
"Oh!" said Vraik, briskly; "y' know that much, do you? Now where is he?"
"I don't know? don't ask me."
"Oh, won't I? but I will." Vraik bent across the table and spoke rapidly in Trall's ear. "Mr. Maller is in that Poplar Street crib."
"No, no, he is not!" Trall shrank back.
"Ole cove, why d'y' lie? He is there. Y' knows it. If y' don't tell me 'bout him, blest if I don't have the perlice into that den."
"You--you would not dare----"
"I mightn't, but the peelers would. Lor'"--Vraik wriggled himself--"jes' to think of the coppers raidin' that crib, an' you bein' blown kite-high for splitting on yer pals. Wot a Sun'y School picter!"
"I have told you nothing," moaned Trall, thoroughly terrified.
"Don't I know that?" snapped Vraik. "Ole cove, I knows enough 'bout you an' them t'make y' tell m'all. If y' don't, I'll go strite to the perlice an' 'ave a raid on yer den. Then I'll say 't was you rounded on the lot."
Trall moaned again and wrung his hands. Drink and terrorism had destroyed the man's brain and nerve. The mere suggestion that Vraik would tell the police about the Soho house was enough for him. If a raid were made there, and he were denounced as an informer his life would be at the mercy of those who were truly merciless.
"Ave some more comfort," said Vraik, who was watching the beads of perspiration roll off his victim's forehead, "then y' can tell me 'bout Maller."
More whisky was brought. Trall dispensed with all water now. He saw that he was in a cleft stick, and since Vraik knew so much, the only way to save himself was to tell him more. Moreover, Trall hated Drabble, and--if he could do so with safety to himself--would with pleasure ruin him. He stretched a trembling hand across the table.
"Swear you will keep my name out of the business," he said, looking round again.
"I swear," said Vraik, promptly. "Bless y', I don't want t'arm y'. I on'y wish t'save Mr. Maller, cos I won't git m' money paid if I don't. Now where is he? Tell me strite."
"In that house--in Soho."
"Is he a prisoner, ole cove?"
"Yes; he said too much, so Drabble and Mrs. Arne had him locked up."
"Drabble and Mrs. Arne!" repeated Vraik. "Who's they?"
Trall shut up promptly. "Oh, you don't know so much if you don't know who they are."
"Ho! that's it, is it?" squeaked the rascal, with a puckered forehead; "now I jes' tell y', ole cove. I knows enough to mess up you and them bomb-pitchin' cusses, so you speak strite. Who's Mrs. Arne an' t'other chap?"
"Anarchists," faltered Trall. "But it's not necessary to talk about them," he went on rapidly, "but about Mr. Mallow. He is a prisoner in the Soho house."
"'Ow can I git im out?"
"You can't get him out except at the risk of your life," said Trall, coldly.
Vraik twisted his lean body and winced. "I've on'y one life, not bein' a cat," said he; "and I ain't goin' to chuck that away for Mr. Maller's. But I'm agoin' to 'ave 'im out if I rip that blessed shanty of yours from top to bottom."
"There is only one man who can help you, and that is Monsieur Rouge."
"Who's he? another of 'em? Wot's he like?"
"Tall and lean, pale, light----"
"Dressed in rummy blue bags? A furrin' cove! Ho, I've seed him goin' t'yer rabbit 'ole. And 'ow can 'e 'elp me?"
Trall rose heavily. "Ask him, if you dare to. I'll tell him you want to see him."
"Right y'are! He won't bring bustin' things with him?"
"No." Trall reflected. "Where's Lord Aldean?" he asked. "Mr. Mallow talked of Lord Aldean."
"He's gone to the Continong. He'll be back soon."
"Then take Rouge to Lord Aldean. I don't think he'll deal with you."
"My h'eye, won't he?" spluttered the little man; "e've horty pride, ain't it! oh, no! Well, jes' you fetch this cove along 'ere to-morrow at this time. I knows where Lord Aldean lives, an' I'll take 'im there."
"I'll tell Rouge. He shall meet you here to-morrow."
"No larks, min'!" said Vraik, sharply. "If 'e ain't 'ere, the perlice 'ull be at Soho, y'bet."
"Rouge shall come. But keep my name quiet."
"I'm dumb. Y'treat me strite, an' I'm yer pal. If y'don't--well, y'know my game."
On this understanding the conference came to an end, and Trall rolled off half terrified, half assured. If the Anarchists could be captured, if his tormentor, Drabble, could be imprisoned, he would be free. "I can join Clara and Carlo then," thought the poor sot, "and be happy for the rest of my life. Ah! Michael had the head of the Tralls. If only I had been like Michael." He heaved a sigh, and, finding sorrow thirsty work, lurched into the nearest bar for another drink.
In the meantime Vraik took a dive into the depths, and wriggling westward in his own slimy way, rose once more to the surface in the respectable neighbourhood of Campden Hill. He knew that Lord Aldean visited at the house there, and he had made up his mind that he would see the occupants and get them to communicate to Lord Aldean Mallow's peril. Confident in his new clothes, he stepped jauntily up to the door, and rang the bell. It was answered by the footman, who remembered his face from his previous visit.
By means of a very free use of Lord Aldean's name, in addition to some capital lying, Vraik succeeded in introducing himself into the presence of Mrs. Purcell and Tui. To them he told his story--that is to say, as much of it as he deemed necessary to fetch back Lord Aldean to London.
"Mr. Mallow in the power of those wretches!" cried Tui, tearfully. "Oh, what will Olive say? What is to be done?"
"The officers of the law----" began Mrs. Purcell, when Vraik cut short her stately periods.
"'Scuse me, lady," he said, "but if the peelers come in there'll be a mess, there will; and Mr. Maller 'ull git the worst of it. Y'jes wire the lor' chap to come back, an' I'll striten out the rest."
"Yes, yes," cried Tui, "let us wire to Lord Aldean at once."
"The matter shall receive my immediate attention," said Mrs. Purcell. "And if this individual----"
"I'm orf, lady; but I'll come back an' see when the lor' chap 'ull be here. It's dry work, this, tho', ain't it?"
After which speech Vraik retired with five shillings clinking in the pockets of his new clothes. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Purcell sent off a telegram of recall to Lord Aldean in Florence.
At breakfast, under his own roof-tree, Aldean reviewed the events and incidents of the last six days. Without doubt, they had been fast and furious. But, even qualified as it was by the news of Boldini's trickery, his work had been largely successful--the more so, considering that four days out of the six had been spent in travelling. The telegram bringing such serious news of poor Mallow had made it absolutely impossible to take any steps towards following the Boldini pair. First and foremost, Mallow's position--whatever it might prove to be--demanded his entire energies. On arrival the previous evening, he had listened earnestly and anxiously to Mrs. Purcell's majestic account of Vraik's visit. But all that her ponderous periods succeeded in conveying to Aldean was the mere fact that Mallow was a prisoner. He felt he must know more at once, and he there and then despatched a wire to Vraik, which brought the little man to Campden Hill in an incredibly short space of time. From him Aldean learned all details, among them that Rouge had refused to move in the matter until brought into personal communication with himself. He arranged with Vraik to see Rouge the next morning between ten and eleven. He felt he could do no more that night save comfort Olive with the assurance that Mallow should be rescued at all costs. Moreover, for once in his life, Aldean felt physically exhausted. He hoped much from the mysterious Monsieur Rouge, though at first thought it was difficult to see how so red a sans-culotte was going to help him. As a devoted Anarchist, it was the duty, and no doubt the wish, of Rouge to keep Mallow in prison, and prevent all attempt at rescue rather than assist towards it. Yet Trall, who was plainly against the Brotherhood, had hinted that Monsieur Rouge could, and would, play the part of a beneficentDeus ex machinâ. The more he thought of it, the more puzzled Aldean became at this dodge of Vraik's. He finished two pipes trying to solve the problem, and concluded by hoping, as usual, for the best.
"Monsieur Rouge," announced Lord Aldean's valet, just as he was filling a third pipe.
"All right; show him in." And Jim, standing with his back to the fire, was face to face with his enigmatic visitor from the depths.
Monsieur Rouge, thin, sad-faced, and more colourless than ever, glided into the room like an unquiet spectre. He saluted his host with grave dignity. Aldean nodded, and when the door was closed pointed to a chair.
"I am glad to see you," he said in French. "Sit down, please. Would you like to eat, or drink, or smoke?"
"If Monsieur permits, no; I come to talk."
"About Mr. Mallow?"
"But certainly, Monsieur, about myself also. I discharge myself of a mission in thus presenting myself."
Lord Aldean, who had not once taken his eyes off the white, haggard face, nodded again, and sat down. With easy grace his visitor slipped into a chair, and placed his peaked cap on the floor beside him. Then he looked fixedly at the young Englishman, and waited to be questioned. Evidently M. Rouge was a discreet personage, and not inclined to venture in further than he could withdraw. Nothing of the rash revolutionist about him.
"Did Vraik bring you here?" asked Aldean, settling himself.
"Assuredly, yes. He gave himself the trouble to lead me to the door. But," Monsieur Rouge waved his hand, "he is gone. I dismissed him. It is not for him to hear what I would say."
"What do you wish to say?"
"Monsieur, I would make you a confession; I would deliver myself of a story. But that later. Let us concern ourselves with Mr. Mallow."
"By all means. Is Mr. Mallow safe?"
"Safe and well. But what would you?" Rouge spread out his hands and shrugged. "He is in the power of Madame. She knows not mercy."
"Does she intend violence?" asked Aldean, hurriedly.
"But what can I say? As the votes go, so will Mr. Mallow be dealt with by the Brotherhood. Attention, Monsieur. Your friend is brave, but rash--oh, most terribly rash! He comes to Soho, and he tells Monsieur the doctor and Madame that he knows of their wickedness about this money, about this murder. Eh! they are afraid that he may tell too much, these brave ones, and they call out 'Spy! spy!' Mr. Mallow fights well, but he is conquered. Behold, Monsieur, your friend most dear is a prisoner in a little room on the top of the house in Soho."
"Have they ill-treated him?"
"But no; it is not necessary. Monsieur, your friend eats and drinks like one of the aristocrats. To-morrow night there is a great meeting of us in the cellar--oh, a very great meeting! Mr. Mallow will be taken down to be judged. All will be told; and if they say 'Kill!' Monsieur will disappear."
"You don't mean they will murder him!" cried Aldean, aghast.
"First, they will murder him," replied Rouge, significantly; "afterwards his body will disappear. We have chemists who do these things. Mr. Mallow will be no more."
"But the police?"
"Eh! what is it that can be done by them? No body, no murder, no trial. Madame and Monsieur the doctor they know well what to do. There is no one else who has seen Mr. Mallow enter--no one. Trall can speak, I can speak; but," with a shrug, "will he speak?"
"I hope so," said Jim, anxiously. "You came here to speak."
"Behold, Monsieur, I do so; and why? Figure to yourself the reason." Rouge rose slowly from his chair. "I--I am no Anarchist."
"You--are--no--Anarchist?" repeated Aldean, stupefied.
"No, I am become one to destroy them. It is my vengeance."
"Vengeance, Monsieur Rouge?"
"That is not my name. I am Emile Durand, citizen of Paris, who devotes himself to destroying those who would destroy the world. Ha! ha! Superb, magnificent. Monsieur," with a sudden solemnity of tone, "I avenge my wife and my child."
"Why, did the Anarchists kill----"
"Yes." Rouge covered his face, and dropped back into the chair, sobbing. "Ah, yes, alas! My dear Sophie, my little child! the good God was silent, and they died--died, and I--I still live."
Lord Aldean looked with pity on the frame of the man, shaken with the violence of his grief. He succumbed to a veritable nerve-storm which swept over him. He wept, he cried aloud, he rolled in his chair, until, beaten and prostrate, he fell back limply.
"My poor fellow, I am sorry for you. Some wine----"
"No, no; Monsieur need not give himself the trouble. No wine." After a time a faint colour came back to him. With an effort his muscles reasserted themselves, and he pulled himself together. But he kept his eyes fixedly on the floor, and spoke rapidly, though almost inaudibly. "Monsieur, five years ago I was a chemist in Paris--Rue Flaubert--and, my faith, what a charming shop! Sophie, my dear wife, was there, and the little one, an adorable little one of four years. Ah, how I loved them--how happy we were! Monsieur, that she-devil of a Madame commanded that Paris should be terrorized by bombs. She wished for a revolution. Close by my little shop a bomb was thrown one night. It burst. Oh, most terrible name of names! Shall I ever forget the bursting of that hell-bomb? It killed my Sophie and my dear little Therese." His voice broke with a dry sob. "They were buried in the ruins of our happy home. I lived; conceive to yourself, Monsieur, I lived. Yes," his voice rose, "to destroy those who destroyed them."
Rouge flung up his arms with a theatrical gesture of despair, and paced hurriedly to and fro. Aldean did not speak. He did not know what to say in the face of such grief.
"Yes, Monsieur, I lived to plot vengeance. I was ill long, long. When I was again myself; I was not myself--not Emile Durand, but Monsieur Rouge, the Anarchist, as you see me now. I joined the Brotherhood, I took the oath. I used my knowledge of chemistry to invent explosives. I wormed myself into their confidence, their counsels, their secrets. Now I am the friend of that she-devil. Figure to yourself, Monsieur, the dear friend of Madame. I make the bombs; I place them. I work, work, work--not for them, but for myself. They shall all die to-morrow."
"Good Lord!" cried Aldean, in horror. "Do you intend, then, to blow them up?"
With an insane light in his eyes Rouge turned on him.
"Monsieur seeks to know what I care not to tell. Holy blue! I know when to be silent. To you I speak of Monsieur Mallow; to him I have related the story of Emile Durand, and he knows that Emile Durand will rescue him. But Rouge--ha ha!"--he broke into a peal of laughter not good to hear, "he will not rescue Madame, or Monsieur the doctor. No, no, not death in life for the innocent, but death in life for her. Ah! ha! it will be a pretty sight."
Frankly speaking, after the first natural feeling of horror, Jim did not care two straws if the Anarchists were blown to atoms or not. On the whole, he considered that some such wholesale destruction might be beneficial. It would assuredly rid the world of a lot of these pestilential wretches, and frighten the others. Moreover, there was something ironically just in their being hoist on their own petard.
"But about Monsieur Mallow?" he observed.
"I shall save him," replied Rouge. "He is in a little room on the top, with a skylight window on the slope of the roof. In the next house I have a room, with a little window, too, through which I can climb. Behold, Monsieur, I take a rope, well strong, and to its end I fasten a stone. I climb on the roof opposite to my window, and throw the stone at the skylight on the slanting roof. Crash! It falls in, and Monsieur Mallow will knot it to his bed. Then he will climb up, like the little cat, along the slanting roof and round its corner, until he slips into my window. Then I will lead him down the stairs to the door, to the street. There you will be, Monsieur, and receive this unfortunate."
The plan of escape appealed to Aldean as simple and skilful and safe enough. Forgetting their relative positions, he sprang to his feet, and shook Rouge heartily by both hands.
"Thank you! thank you!" he cried. "Neither Mr. Mallow nor myself will ever forget your kindness."
"Bah!" Rouge shrugged his shoulders. "It is nothing. What would you have? Monsieur Mallow has been good to me. He has given me money and kind words. No, Monsieur, I am no ingrate to permit one so beneficent to perish. Death is for the evil, not for the good."
"Suppose his escape is discovered?"
"Only when it is too late for them," said Rouge, with a cruel smile. "They will not care for Monsieur Mallow's escape. No, my faith!"
"But what of yourself?"
"That shall be as the good God designs. Ask me no more, Monsieur, but be you in that street at eight o'clock to-morrow night. I will bring your friend to your arms. I swear it! I, Emile Durand, by the head of my Sophie, by my little Therese But when you have your friend, go far--there will be danger."
"If we can ever repay you----"
"Repay me?" Rouge seized Aldean by the hand, and looked into his face with earnest eyes. "Monsieur, have masses said for the repose of the dear ones. It is all I ask, If the good Lord give me death in my vengeance, buy a mass for the poor Emile Durand."
He sighed, dropped Aldean's hand, but still looked at him.
"I promise," said Jim, earnestly. "Masses shall be said for Sophie and the little one; but I hope you will escape."
"It is as the good God wills," sighed Rouge, and walked to the door. As he put on his peaked cap he looked back. "Not a word of this to a soul," said he, hoarsely, "or your friend is lost."
"I understand."
"Good. At eight o'clock to-morrow night in the street of Poplaire. There you shall see your friend, and my vengeance."
When the man glided out, Jim turned to the mantelpiece, and rested his forehead on his clasped hands.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "Mallow will be saved. I must tell Olive."