In the old-fashioned drama of mediæval complexion, the prisoner--usually the hero of the play--was "haled to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat." The Anarchists of Soho having no castle and no moat, and having moreover other uses for their cellar, so far improved upon this bygone fashion as to sky their prisoners--when they had any. In the present instance Mallow was perched in an attic on the top of the house. The window was overhead, set in the slant of the roof, and the door was kept double-locked. A safer or more isolated cell could not well have been devised. It was impossible to reach the skylight even by standing on the bed; and it would have been a difficult task to break down that four-inch door. Had the prisoner even succeeded in boring through the walls, he could scarcely hope to escape by dropping fifty feet on to the pavement; and let him shout and kick as he would, no one--other than his gaoler--was likely to hear him.
He was absolutely powerless; and his sole comfort lay in the thought that Aldean was carrying on the campaign. When Jim returned he would find that Mallow was missing, and would undoubtedly guess that he was in the power of the Anarchists. If these latter did not kill him in the meantime--as they might, in self-preservation--Aldean would surely apply to the police and have the Soho house searched. Then freedom, and Nemesis upon his enemies.
This was one hope, but there was yet another. Monsieur Rouge, who had brought Mallow's food to him several times, had on one occasion thrown off his revolutionary mask so far as to promise to aid the prisoner's escape. And, although Mallow did not well see how he was to do this--seeing that Rouge had not divulged his scheme,--there was comfort in the thought that, if Aldean should fail, he might succeed. So he resigned himself to the inevitable, and waited.
Since his imprisonment Drabble had not appeared, nor indeed had Mrs. Arne; but on the sixth day, when Mallow was wondering what they were thinking of doing with him, the lady herself came into his attic. She re-locked the door, sat down on the one chair--which she placed so that she faced Mallow sitting on the bed--and, with the most amiable composure, signified that she wished to converse. The mere sight of her infuriated Mallow, but the memory of his previous folly taught him to control himself. He was as self-possessed as Madame herself.
"You are no doubt surprised to see me, Mr. Mallow," began Mrs. Arne, in her unemotional tones; "but you will be less so when you hear what I have to say."
"Nothing you could do would surprise me, Madame, after your daring to shut me up in this illegal manner."
"Oh"--Madame shrugged--"everything we do in this house is illegal. The Brotherhood is outside the so-called law, and against it. If there is any one to blame, it is yourself. As a spy, you can hardly expect mercy."
"I am not a spy."
"Then your interpretation of the word differs from mine. You came here under the pretence of joining us, from conscientious motives; but your real errand is to criminate myself and the doctor in the murder of this man Carson. Your intentions were dangerous to our personal safety; ergo, we lock you up! Can you blame us?"
"If the tiger has the tiger's nature who can blame him?" retorted Mallow. "You killed Carson; I dare say you will not hesitate to murder me."
"As to yourself," said Madame, smoothly, "we will speak of that later. But you are wrong about Mr. Carson; I did not kill him, neither did Drabble."
"I find it difficult to believe that. You and Drabble--he under the name of Hain--rented the house in which the man met his death. He was stabbed with a knitting-needle. I have observed that you knit a great deal, Madame."
"True; but I confine my needles to their proper use. The doctor and I left Mr. Carson alone in the house; when we returned he was dead. Who murdered him I know no more than you--or the police," finished Madame, with a sneer.
"Your explanation is too diaphanous to be convincing."
"I did not come here to convince you," said Mrs. Arne, dryly, "but to inform you that we intend to give you a chance to save your life."
"Save my life?" echoed Mallow (he could not repress a slight tremor). "Your meaning has been murder, then?"
"We never use that word; but call it so if you will. In three nights from now there is called a meeting of the Brotherhood in the cellar of this house. You will be brought down to take the oath."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we--remove you," said Madame, in silky tones. "Take the oath and you go free, for you can break it only at the imminent risk of your life. A hundred eyes will be always on you, a hundred feet will dog your steps. One rash word, one hint to the police about our affairs, and you die."
"You dare not kill me."
Madame laughed.
"Put that to the test if you will by refusing the oath," said she, indifferently. "For myself, I think you better dead. It is the doctor's wish that you have this chance."
"I suppose you know the risk you run? My friends will search diligently for me."
"No doubt. But they will not come here. No one saw you enter this house. If your friends are clever enough to trace you to this place they will find nothing. We have chemists who can convert your dead body into nothing more tangible than gas. You will vanish into thin air. We have arranged all that."
"You are a fiend."
"I am Madame Death-in-Life. You know why I am called so? No? Because those in authority live on my sufferance. I have but to lift a finger and they die. Monsieur Rouge, whom you have seen, is something more than a chemist. He invents explosives. He designs bombs."
Mallow thought of the explosion in Paris, when the wife and child of Emile Durand were killed by the lifting of Madame's finger, and he drew comfort from the recollection. A man with such wrongs would surely rescue him, even at the eleventh hour.
The thought gave him courage to listen to the woman.
"Well, whether you kill me or not the fifty thousand pounds are gone," said he, rather spitefully. "All your schemes have come to nothing."
"All our schemes are not ended," said Mrs. Arne, rising. "I see your friend Lord Aldean has not yet got back the money."
"How do you know that?"
"I know that he is in Florence trying to force my nephew into giving back the money which is ours."
"Your nephew! The false Carson!"
"Yes. Carlo Boldini is his real name. He is a fool if he thinks to escape with that money from me. But that reptile, his wife, is to blame for all that."
"How dare you use such language towards Mrs. Carson?" cried Mallow, indignantly.
"I am speaking of Clara Trall, my nephew's real wife. Miss Bellairs is not that."
"What--what do you----"
"I should advise you to take the oath, Mr. Mallow, and you may yet live to marry Miss Bellairs. Otherwise----" She shrugged, and opened the door.
Mallow tried to detain her, but she drew her dress gently from his grasp, and with a sudden dart was outside. Before he could fling himself after her the door was slammed to and locked.
The last communication of Madame was skilfully made. It left Mallow in a storm of mingled joy and grief.
For the next two days he thought and thought over his terrible position, and contrived a hundred ways to escape without having the resolution to attempt one. On the third day, at five o'clock, Rouge brought up his food. Mallow--who had almost given up hope of seeing him again--sprang forward with an exclamation of delight. Rouge laid a lean finger on his lips.
"Hush!" he whispered, glancing at the door, "we may be overheard. To-night you will be brought to the meeting at ten o'clock. Is it not so?"
"Yes, yes!" said Mallow. "Madame told me. But you will help----"
"Hush! No word, Monsieur. To-night at eight I will throw a stone at the window above. It will fall inside here, and a cord will be tied to it. Fasten the cord to your bed, and climb up it. Get through the window, and climb on the cord, round the corner of the roof; then slide down the slope. The cord will lead you to my window. I shall be there."
"Thank you! Thank you! But the noise--the falling stone--is it not dangerous?"
"No! no! We shall all be down in the cellar. The meeting begins at eight o'clock. They expect me to bring you at nine. But then, Monsieur, you will be free. Milord will await you in the street."
"Lord Aldean! Does he know, then?" +++233/247 "He knows all. Hush, Monsieur, be careful to fasten the rope well. If it slips, and you roll off the roof into the street, you are dead."
"I will be careful. How can I thank you----"
"Hush! no word!" Monsieur Rouge again laid his finger on his lips, and slipped silently out of the room.
Mallow was in darkness, for, lest he should fire the house, he was not permitted a light. But he cared little for that. His heart beat high at the prospect of escape, even in so perilous a way. He shook his bed, and found that the feet were clamped to the floor. All the better; it would hold the rope fast. Overhead the skylight was black in the night, and Mallow heard the raindrops rattle like small shot on the pane. Up through that black square was his sole way of escape, with the risk of death if he made a false step. But his courage was high, and his nerve did not fail him.
Never had the hours seemed so long. The chimes of a near church marked them at century distances, as it seemed, to the strained ears of the prisoner. He ate heartily of the food Rouge had brought, but the wine he left untouched. He would need a cool head and a clear brain. Down below the wild beasts were, no doubt, creeping into their jungle. He pictured them slinking through alley and by-street in the rainy, stormy night: unclean prowlers menacing humanity. In the depths of the earth they would scheme the destruction of the dwellers thereon--innocent men and women, little children, even the kindly beasts of the earth. All! all would be gloated over by those now stealing to their wicked hole. Mallow was as brave as a lion, and he burned with rage as he thought of those demons below.
At last eight o'clock clanged loudly in the night air. Then a dead silence. Mallow could hear his heart thump furiously. Still no stone fell, and he clasped his hands in nervous dread lest, after all, Rouge might have deceived him. What if the man were in truth an Anarchist? what if his promised deliverance were not fulfilled? suppose--crash! smash! and a heavy body shot like a meteor through the window amid a rain of splintered glass.
"The rope! Thank God!"
With feverish hands he felt in the darkness for the stone, and found it. As he gripped, the rope shook away more glass. He listened for a moment to hear if the noise had attracted attention. All was quiet. Joyfully and hopefully he groped for the bed and drew in the rope until it was taut. At this end of it was prison, at the other liberty and Olive. Mallow bound it in tight knots to the iron framework of the bed. He felt these over and over again to make sure they would not slip. His life depended upon his care; and he anxiously tugged and strained until he poured with perspiration.
At last the task was complete. He ran his hand along the rope. It was taut as a bobstay--but at best it was but a frail bridge to safety. Yet it was his only one. Going to the door, he listened. Again silence. Taking off his shoes and socks, so that his bare feet might cling to the slates, Mallow sprang on the rope and swung himself upward. The rain, spurting in through the window, splattered on his upturned face; a piece of glass, loosened by the swing of the rope, fell and cut him; but the man set his teeth and climbed hand over hand to freedom. At last his head emerged through the skylight. He saw the dark and stormy sky spitting rain, and the light of the city glimmering through the mist. Luckily the skylight was large enough. Clinging tightly to the rope, Mallow thrust his shoulders against the glass. It smashed, splintered, broke in a hundred fragments. He was through in the fresh air, on the roof of a house fifty and more feet from the pavement. With desperate courage he clung to the frail rope, and lay flat on the wet slates, his toes digging into them to relieve the strain on the cord. The blood surged and gushed in his head, and he feared he would roll off insensible. Below was the abyss of the street, above the sloping wet slates at an acute angle, and, over all, the tearing, sweeping drench of the rain driven before the gusts of wind.
Then a new terror gripped his heart. The edge of the rope lay amongst the sharp angles of the glass. It might fray through, and he would be dashed over the parapet of the house to swing like a spider at the end of a thread. For a moment or so he lay flat in his soaked clothes, prone on the slant. Then, with a violent effort, he drew up his knees, and clawed his way along the rope. His trousers were cut to ribbons; his nails torn, hand and foot; and a piece of glass had cut one of his feet severely. But he was too excited to feel any pain. Slowly, but surely, he drew himself along the slates, ever ascending to the summit of the roof. There was no moon to help him; only a flurry of flying clouds and the steady thresh of the rain. It seemed a century, until he put out one hand and felt the ledge. With renewed courage he lifted himself over this, cutting his knees with the rough slates as he did so. The next moment he was safe from the abyss, and sliding carefully down the slant to a leaden gutter between two houses.
"Hush!" whispered a voice. "Hold to the rope, Monsieur; give me your hand."
Mallow gave a gasp of joy and relief as Rouge hauled him, wet and exhausted, through the window. He would have fallen, but that the man kept him upright by main force, and carried him through the candle-lighted room out on to the landing. How he got down the stairs he never knew. In the grip of Rouge he seemed to be falling, falling, falling into eternal darkness. Then he must have fainted for the moment. When he came to he was in a hansom, his head lying on Aldean's shoulder, and Aldean holding him with a grip of iron.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" he heard Aldean say as in a dream. "And you, Rouge--how can I thank you?"
"Adieu, Monsieur!" said a far-away voice. "Forget not the prayer for Sophie and the little Therèse."
At the head of a bare deal table, set on a dais at one end of the cellar, stood Madame Death-in-Life. This subterranean place of congress comprised the whole area of the building. Excavations had been made, indeed, extending some way below the street. These were bricked in with stones, rough whitewashed. The low roof was actually the concrete floor of the basement. It was supported by pillars and arches. Entrance and exit were effected through a trapdoor with a movable ladder. There were neither chairs nor benches. The Brothers stood huddled together like sheep in a pen before the daïs--the tribune of their infernal parliament. The lanterns slung at intervals along the wall shed their faint gleam only to make obscurity more obscure. It was curious to note on the faces of these men--faces shaven and unshaven, fierce and dreamy, bearded and haggard--one common expression of determination. The flash of fanaticism was in the eye of every one of them. Some of well-nigh each European nation were present here; and their spokeswoman addressed them, first in one language, and then in another. She was no longer the icicle. She was the zealot. She made herself felt solely by means of the sense of conviction which consumed her by the right of imaginary wrong. She communicated her feelings to those about her. She dominated them by sheer force of her own enthusiasm. She renounced, she denounced, she exhorted. "Our ruler is our enemy," she declared. "We Anarchists are without rulers. We fight against all the usurpers of power--against those who wish to usurp it. Our enemy is the landowner who keeps the land for himself, who makes the peasant work for his advantage. Our enemy is the manufacturer who fills his factory with slaves. Our enemy is the State, be it Anarchical, Oligarchical, or Democratic. Its official and staff of officers, magistrates, police-spies--all these are our enemies. Our enemy is every thought of authority, call it God or the devil, in whose name the priests have so long ruled the people. Our enemy is the law which oppresses the weak by the strong to the justification and apotheosis of crime. But if the landowners, the manufacturers, the heads of the State, the priests, and the law are our enemies, we are theirs, and we boldly oppose them. We will reconquer the land and the factories, we will annihilate the State, under whatever name it may be concealed, we will regain our freedom in spite of priest and law. We despise all legal means. They are the negations of our rights. We want no so-called universal suffrage, since we cannot get away from our own personal sovereignty. We cannot and will not make ourselves accomplices in the crimes committed by our so-called representatives. We will remain our own masters, and he amongst us who strives to become a chief or leader is a traitor to our cause. Our work it is to conquer and defend common property, and to overthrow governments by whatever name they may be called. To do this we must work, we must invent, we must sacrifice. Brains, money, labour, lives--let all go for the attainment of our end. And I have a thought--a great and glorious thought, a master-thought, which, if put to execution, will give us victory." For the first time she threw out her hands, and shouted, "Air-ships! that is my thought. Conceive to yourselves, brothers, the value of this. It is superb--magnificent. There are men of genius amongst you. Get you to work, then, with all your powers. Think, strive, experiment; dedicate yourselves to the fulfilment of this great project. Succeed. You shall have money, time, help--what you will, but succeed. This is no idle dream, I say. It is the vision of my faith. I see it now before me. It rises from the ground, it soars over the earth, it poises like a vulture o'er the cities. Death--death--death it deals around. Unassailable, unapproachable, ever victorious, our engine or right. Let this be your task, comrades, and France with her armies, and England with her navies, are puny and powerless against us. The dreams of to-day are the truths of to-morrow. Have we not proof of it? The steam-engine, the telegraph, the phonograph, the telephone--all these were but dreams, once. To-day they are with us. Again I say, work, toil, beat your brains, make the great secret ours; solve the mighty problem of the air, and make us victors over the kingdoms of the oppressors!"
Madame sat down. One after another the men leaped up on to the daïs, each in his own tongue striving to give vent to the frenzy she had raised within him. They discussed the subject hotly. The problem of aërial navigation had plainly caught their fancy. Then up spake Dr. Drabble.
"Dreams," he said; "yes, brothers, at present these are but dreams. But they are dreams which it is for us to make realities. Brothers, I bring no inventive powers to this task. But I bring you the sinews of war. I bring money--money amply sufficient for our present needs--fifty thousand pounds. A million and more of francs, a million of marks, a million of lire, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I give it to you--all to you--all to the Brotherhood."
A roar of applause from the crowd, then a dead silence, at the words that followed. They were as a douche of cold water on red-hot iron.
"But there are difficulties," he said calmly, "not wholly unsurmountable. A brother has this money, gained through a scheme of mine--of Madame here. To-night that money should have been with us. Alas, it is not." Drabble then paused to give due effect to his next words. They came with a hiss. "The brother who has that money is a traitor."
No outcry this time, no openly expressed disapprobation, only a low deadly murmur of hatred and contempt. Every face expressed loathing for the traitor. Every hand itched to be at his throat. The wild beasts seemed to crouch for the spring.
"The traitor's name is Carlo Boldini," said the doctor. "Remember that name, that you may engrave it on his tomb."
"My nephew this man," cried Madame, with a cruel smile. "My nephew whom I devote to death. I spit on the traitor. I stamp him under my foot. To betray the great and glorious cause of humanity--robber, beast, one lower than the brutes. Here, you always-to-be-trusted comrades of Germany, the cause has been by my nephew--most vile of creatures--betrayed. When you beside him stand, kill. Brothers of France, the fraternity call upon you to execute the vengeance. Understand you the horror of betrayal? Children of Robespierre, I delegate to you the task of giving him the death. Down with the traitor. Death to him--death."
"Death," "death," "death"--the word echoed in all languages through the cellar. Every one present, man or woman, doomed Carlo Boldini to death from that moment. His aunt smiled approval. She would have slain him herself for the cause.
"Brothers"--the doctor was on his feet again--"the traitor, with a woman, has fled to Italy--to Florence. He has been followed. Our brother who has watched him there reports that he and his wife have escaped in disguise to Genoa. Our brother still follows. The traitor has taken ship for South America, with the money so hardly won. On that ship our brother watches him. Wherever he goes the eye of the Brotherhood marks him. Fear not! Vengeance shall blot him out from amidst the humanity he has so basely betrayed. My comrades, you volunteer to punish this traitor and the woman Clara Trall."
Before any one could speak, Jeremiah, haggard-faced, with terror in his eyes, broke through the throng and flung himself on his knees.
"No, no!" he implored, with shaking voice; "not Clara, not my little girl. Spare----"
"Remove him," cried a dozen voices; and a dozen hands clutched the wretched creature and forced him to his feet. Weeping and imploring, he was dragged mercilessly to the further end of the cellar. The Juggernaut of Anarchy had rolled over his heart, and crushed it without extorting a sigh or a glance from its fierce worshippers. With terrible composure two men were then selected to hunt down Boldini and recover the money and punish the traitor. Money and instructions were given to these trackers, and they were bidden to return with their task completed. Without a word the pair slipped through the crowd, through the trapdoor, and went out into the world to pick up the trail of the victims. From that moment Boldini, flying over the seas though he was, stood doomed. There was something devilish in the menacing silence in which the hunters departed to run down their prey.
"My brothers," said Madame slowly, "I have a secret to disclose. When this money comes back to us, we go to Switzerland--to Geneva--there to work out our great invention. Here the police have heard of the Brotherhood. There is danger. Some day the tyrants will send their dogs here to drive us from this refuge. We are ready for their coming. Our brother Rouge has prepared this cellar for their reception. Here, under this floor," she pointed downwards, "there is a mine formed of a new explosive, the invention of brother Rouge. We stand now on a volcano. Behind me," she turned to the wall at her back, "behold this button. It communicates with the mine by electricity. One touch, and all who are here would be destroyed, the house would be destroyed, and the street would be torn up. This is the work of brother Rouge."
A murmur of approval followed. Some of the weaker creatures looked down to the concrete floor, as though their gaze could pierce to the deadly mine beneath, and shuddered. But the rest smiled grimly. No one made comment of any kind.
Madame continued, "Rouge, my brothers, declares that he will sacrifice himself for the glorious cause. When these dogs come here they will not find us. We shall be in Switzerland, with wealth, and brave hearts working out our scheme for the benefit of the slaves of humanity. The police will explore the house, they will descend to this cellar. Here, where I stand, they will find our brother smiling at his prey. He will speak. He will proclaim our glorious mission. He will doom them to die for it. One touch, and our enemies are as dust. Rouge dies indeed, but his glorious memory will live in our hearts. Brothers! salute the name of Rouge!"
The Anarchists shouted exultantly, and the name of Rouge, with words of approval, flew from lip to lip. They did not pity him, they did not lament his coming fate, but they lifted up their voices and saluted the mention of his name all-glorious. There was not one man or woman present who would not do the same if bidden. "To save humanity, my brothers, we must die. Sacrifice a hundred lives, so that one despot may fall from his throne. Over our graves the happy world of the future will live, and those who have won freedom by our death will strew those graves with flowers everlasting. To the glory of the cause, shout, my brothers, shout--and, if needs be, die."
Drabble glanced at his watch, turned a significant look on Madame, and spoke. "To-night, brothers, a neophyte will take the oath to aid us. He is a gentleman, clever but rash. He entered our house to spy. He learned our secrets, and, should he go abroad, much harm may be done. Madame says kill him. I say not so. If he refuse the oath, then let him die. If he take it, I say let him live. It is for us to win all we can to our Brotherhood, so that we may be strong. This man can aid us. Therefore, let us keep him if we can. Rouge brings him here in a few minutes, and according to his wisdom shall he be dealt with."
There was an interval for rest. The meeting broke up into chattering groups. Madame passed swiftly to the end of the cellar, where the unfortunate Trall still moaned over his niece. With a look of contempt, the woman stirred him with her foot.
"Rise," she said sternly. Slowly he got on his feet, a dishevelled, tumbled object, and muttered something about Clara. "You fool!" said Madame. "Is that all you have learned with us? To value your own miserable life or that of any other man or woman? When we take the oath we surrender our lives, to be saved or lost for the good of the cause. Clara has proved false. She must die. Nothing can save her."
The wretched man sobbed. "Have mercy," he said. "Oh, have mercy."
"It is no question of mercy, but of necessity. You are not fit to be here. This is no place for tears. Leave the house, I say. When you are wanted you shall be sent for."
"Madame----"
"Go," said Mrs. Arne, sharply. "Have I to speak twice?"
Trall's head dropped on his breast in utter despair, and, without a word, he slouched through the throng and up the trapdoor. As he went out, he passed Rouge about to descend. Rouge was alone, grave, colourless, composed. As he dropped down, the Brotherhood saluted him with a volley of applause.
"Where is the prisoner?" called out Madame from the daïs.
"He will be brought down by me shortly, Madame," said Rouge; "but I have come to make a communication to the society. First, I must make all safe."
So saying, he removed the ladder, and laid it flat on the ground. Then he took up his position in the corner directly under the trapdoor, and leaned lightly against the wall. To right and left the crowd parted, so that Madame and Drabble saw him as down a long lane. A lantern overhead shed a heavy yellow light on his pallid face, and he looked as a ghost in the shadows. The Brotherhood was uneasy, not at his action, for he was a much trusted member, but on account of his reference to making all safe. Even Mrs. Arne seemed anxious.
"Rouge," she cried, "what is the matter?"
"I propose to tell you, Madame," he replied in a loud, clear voice. "Listen, all of you, to what I say. You know me as Rouge, the trusted brother of the society. Five years ago in Paris I was known as Emile Durand."
They looked at one another. Madame, with a premonition that something was wrong, half rose from her chair, and Drabble leaned forward anxiously. In dead silence every one hung upon the speech of Rouge. He spoke in French, the tongue best understood of the greatest number.
"Emile Durand," continued Rouge in a calm, even voice, "was a chemist in Paris, with a wife and child whom he dearly loved. He was a good citizen, a good father, a fond husband. The good God bestowed on him happiness, but his happiness was destroyed by death."
"What does this foolishness mean?"
"You will soon know, Madame," said Rouge. "It means that you and your cursed assassins threw a bomb into my shop. You killed my wife and child wickedly and cruelly. I lived but to avenge them. To-night I do so."
"Seize him! drag him forward!" shouted Drabble.
"Stand back, murderer!" shrieked Rouge, his face scarlet with rage, his eyes sparkling. "You see, I have my hand on the wall. I press it, and the mine below is fired. You will be----"
A wail of terror rose from the crowd. They shrank back from the man. Madame flung herself across the table, less afraid than furious.
"Seize him!" she cried madly. "Traitor! kill him; he lies! The button which explodes the mine is at my back."
Drabble whipped out a revolver, and the crowd reeled forward, mad with terror and anger.
"Who laid the mine?" cried Rouge, undaunted. "I did. The wire yonder is a false one. The real communication is here, under my hand."
"Betrayed, betrayed!" yelled Madame, throwing herself down. "Shoot him! kill him!"
Up swung Drabble's revolver to a level with Rouge's heart. The man never flinched. "Shoot, and I fire the mine!" he roared. "Your lives are in my hands, and I doom them. Make your peace with the God you have offended, for you are to meet Him now."
With an oath, Drabble flung himself forward and fired, but a terror-struck woman seized his arm, and the shot struck the roof. The scene which ensued was indescribable. The wild beasts groaned and howled, some, returning to the religion they had forgotten, fell on their knees to pray. Drabble was overset and trodden underfoot. All shrank back from their judge and executioner. Madame, on the daïs, colourless and silent, stared at Rouge. She alone knew how lost all was.
"O God," Rouge's voice rose clear and steady, "I am an instrument in Thy hands to rid this earth of devils. I sacrifice myself to avenge my wife and little one. To help humanity, I slay these demons. Judge them in their wickedness."
His voice became inaudible in the turmoil. With uplifted hands, they implored pity, besought mercy. And Rouge smiled.
"In the name of God," he shouted.
Madame rushed forward, stumbling over the terror-stricken men and women. She dashed straight to the mark. Silent, deadly pale, her eyes flaming, her hands extended to tear this man to pieces.
"Sophie, Therèse," cried Rouge, and, as Madame flung herself like a tigress upon him, he pressed the button hard. The next moment he was borne down by the woman.
The turmoil ceased. There was a dead silence--a terrible silence. And the earth rocked and heaved, and opened her mouth to vomit fire, and the jungle with its wild beasts of humanity hurtled through the air. With a roar of thunder, belching flame and smoke, the house split from cellar to attic. The end of the world had come for them all. And the smoke of their torment went up to heaven.
Sophie and Therèse were avenged.
A week after the catastrophe at Soho, Olive and Laurence were seated before a blazing fire in the Manor House drawing-room. Winter was upon them in earnest, and the rose-garden of July lay covered thick with snow, and the naked woods surrounding fought with the whistling blast.
Mallow had recovered from his cuts and scrapings, but his nerves were still suffering from his recent experience. There was no doubt that his system had received a severe shock, although he pluckily made light of it. Even Mrs. Purcell, suddenly entering the room, made him jump in his chair, and Olive laid her hand on his arm to soothe him. The two had come together only within the last three days, and at their first meeting Mallow had kissed her. That kiss was the outward and visible sign of their engagement.
"My dears!" Mrs. Purcell, with voluminous skirts, sank into a chair a wide-spreading billow. "My dears," she spokeex cathedrâ, "I have been considering your position. Olive, my dear, outside this house you are still known as Mrs. Carson. Have you formed any plausible scheme for the amelioration of this unpleasant state of affairs?"
"None, Mrs. Purcell. I suppose I must tell the truth."
"That seems to me an extreme view to take. The truth is so very strange."
"Stranger than fiction," chimed in Mallow. "But if fact will poach on the domain of fancy, our friends will have to enlarge their swallowing capacity. I think it is best to be straightforward, Mrs. Purcell, and make a clean breast of it, from the arrival of Carson, the impostor, to the Soho explosion."
"I regret to say, Mr. Mallow, that I do not concur," said Mrs. Purcell, shaking her turban. "Exclusive honesty is not the best policy; and in this case it would only provide the daily journals with sensational matter. I am averse, and I feel sure that you are also, to our dear Olive's name being in the mouth of the multitude. There is no need to be too explicit."
"Then how am I to account for my marriage being a false one?" asked Olive.
"By telling the truth, my dear, within limitations. Say that the marriage was a nominal one, contracted with Mr. Angus Carson in obedience to the expressed wish of your father. Add, that during the honeymoon you unfortunately--or, rather, fortunately--discovered that Mr. Carson was the husband of another woman, and at once left him to resume your own name. Finally, let it be known that Mr. Carson and his true wife have left England together, and will return no more. Mr. Carson, you understand, my love, not Signor Boldini."
"You would make no explanation?" demanded Mallow.
"Assuredly not. You are not bound to satisfy the curiosity of the public. Though, indeed!" added Mrs. Purcell, "so much as I would have you reveal, should be sufficient to answer all questions. Moreover, I most earnestly advise Olive to accompany me abroad for a few months, and at the end of that time to marry you, Mr. Mallow, before returning to England. Then both of you can take up your position in this house without giving cause for scandal or public animadversions. It is true people may talk about our dear Olive's first marriage; but, for want of details, which I advise you strongly to withhold, such idle chatter will die of inanition."
There was good sound sense in what Mrs. Purcell said. A bare statement of the facts which enabled Olive to reappear in society as Mrs. Mallow was all that was necessary. And none was better calculated to enunciate the facts than Mrs. Purcell, for one reason because she knew every one in the county worth knowing; for another, because her very prolixity made impressive what otherwise might have been looked upon as a bald and feeble narrative. She would take care that the sympathies of one and all were with her beloved Olive, and when, after a sufficiently judicious absence, she returned to the Manor House the wife of Laurence Mallow, her reception would be something more than cordial.
"What a relief!" sighed Olive, when the old lady had departed in triumph. "The whole thing has been quite a nightmare to me lately. I am so thankful that Mrs. Purcell has found a way out of it."
"Mrs. Purcell is a sensible woman," said Mallow, warmly, "and her opinion carries weight. What she says is perfectly true. You were so unfortunate at first as to be placed in the position of marrying a man who was not your choice, and, further, having married him, of discovering the fact that he was already married. The sequel is, I think, sufficiently obvious to the dullest of our neighbours. At all events, there is the whole business in a nutshell, and it shall be for Mrs. Purcell to present it to the county to crack. No word need be said of any connection with these Anarchist people. Thank goodness, they and their diabolical schemes have been very effectually disposed of."
"Don't, Laurence!" Olive shivered and covered her face. "It is terrible to think of how narrowly you escaped death."
"Dearest, a miss is as good as a mile. Thanks to that poor fellow Rouge, I came through all right. My only regret is that the death of Mrs. Arne, of Trall, and Drabble does away with any hope of our learning the truth. The reason for poor Carson's murder will remain a mystery."
"It is no mystery to me," cried Olive, petulantly. "Mrs. Arne killed him."
"She denied it most solemnly."
"I dare say. Such a woman would deny anything."
"To gain her ends, she would," replied Mallow judiciously; "but, in this case, she gained nothing by denial. I am inclined to think she told me the truth. Until Carson proved recalcitrant it would have been foolish for her to kill the goose with the golden eggs. Olive, whoever killed Carson, the Anarchists didn't."
"Well, innocent or guilty, then the wickedness has put an end to them. That man Rouge is a hero."
"I agree with you, but the world does not know of his heroism, and never will. The police, the papers, are absolutely at a loss to explain the explosion, and it is my intention that neither Jim nor I should enlighten them. TheMorning Planetdeclares that the Anarchists were experimenting with a new explosive. Such an explanation is quite sufficient for the masses, the classes, and the quidnunc asses."
"Will not Vraik say something?"
"What can he say, save that Rouge was one of the Brotherhood? It was only to Jim and me that he revealed himself and his plans. No, Vraik is safe enough. I shall pay him, and dismiss him."
"You won't go on with the case, then, Laurence?" Mallow shook his head. "There are no clues," he said.
"Surely you forget; there are still two clues," cried Olive, vivaciously. "What about the man who inquired at the P. and O. Office?"
"Oh, no doubt he was an Anarchist sent by Drabble to learn when thePharaohwould arrive--perhaps Drabble himself, in disguise. I dare say, whoever he was, he was blown up with the rest of the gang. No clue there, Olive."
"Then there is the packet Lord Aldean found in the sandal-wood chest."
"H'm," Mallow reflected, "there may be something in that. Of course, it depends upon what the packet contains. Have you given it to Mr. Brock?"
"No; I thought of doing so to-morrow. He has been too ill to see any one lately."
"What! Is his accident so bad as that?"
"It is as bad as it can be," said Olive, emphatically. "He is old, and not very strong. Besides, he would insist upon being brought back to Casterwell; and the journey has shaken him. The nervous shock has affected his heart, so the doctor says."
"That's bad. Poor old chap! Don't suppose he'll pull through."
"Come and see him with me to-morrow, Laurence."
"Yes, dear, with pleasure. We'll ask him about the packet. I dare say he'll show us what is in it." Mallow rose and began to pace the room, musing as he walked. "It might turn out valuable," he said, at length, "from the care Carson took to conceal it it is evidently a document of importance."
"I wonder why Mr. Carson did conceal it?"
"Because he mistrusted Semberry," replied Mallow, promptly. "Depend upon it, Olive, Carson soon realized that the Major was a shifty scamp, and hid his papers where there was no likelihood of their being read. I see no other explanation for their concealment."
"I shall make a point of seeing Brock to-morrow," he said, looking out of the window and whistling softly.
"Laurence," said Olive, who was still staring into the fire, "do you think Dr. Drabble was blown up?"
"I'm certain of it. As Madame Death-in-Life's right-hand man, and general adviser to these rascals, he would certainly not be absent from so important a meeting. Yes, I think Drabble has received the wage of his sins."
"Poor Mrs. Drabble!"
"Happy Mrs. Drabble, you mean. She has been rescued from the torment of an unscrupulous bully. Besides, Drabble would have poisoned his children's minds. He was in a fair way to ruining Margery." Olive rose and came laughing across the room. "Margery has improved," she said, with some amusement; "her Anarchistic mood has passed. She now concerns herself chiefly with religion."
"At her age? Nonsense! There must be a limit even to her precocity."
"A child's religion, of course. Margery is older than her years, and very, very clever, as you know. She now reads her Bible, goes to church, and writes hymns on the model of Keble. I found her with Keble's poems the other day."
"Poor child! her father has quite unsettled her mind. It's a lucky thing for Margery, and for the rest of the family, that he's gone. I suppose the news of his death will, have to be broken to his wife. But if Mrs. Drabble is wise she will rejoice, not sorrow."
"Oh, Laurence! After all he was her husband, the father of her children."
"And a nice blackguard in either capacity. Hullo, who's this tramp?"
Across the lawn stumbled a ragged Guy Fawkes, grotesque and unsteady. He laboured in the snow like a liner rolling in a cross sea. At his nearer approach he raised his head. Those at the window started, and stared eagerly.
"Laurence! look! a black beard, a long beard; can it be----"
"Wait, wait," interrupted Mallow; and throwing open the French window, he ran across the terrace down the steps. With a yelp the man scrambled back, but stumbled full length on the slippery crust of snow. Mallow gripped his shoulder as he dropped. "Who the devil are you?" he said roughly.
"Mr. Mallow?" The ragged creature gave a howl of joy. "I'm--I'm Trall!"