Chapter 4

"ONE OF US."

"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 the sansculottes.

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.