Chapter 6

"ANOTHER LINK."

On the whole Mallow was interested in his Anarchistic friends. He possessed a goodly supply of the right sort of curiosity, and this new milieu in which he found himself was unlike anything he had experienced before. He was groping in an under-world of fanaticism and crime premeditated, and it fascinated him not a little. He threw himself heart and soul into the whole question, and, in company with Monsieur Rouge, explored many queer corners, East and West. For the time he made these people's cause his own. They were a small minority, determined--ruthlessly determined--on becoming a majority, and he was curious as to the methods by which they intended to accomplish their end. Of necessity he was brought into contact with many creatures of low order; creatures often needlessly ragged and unkempt, he thought. He could only conclude that their reckless condition was of value to them as a perpetual reminder of the terrible wrongs under which they suffered. But to their fiery crusade against their better-dressed neighbours, and to their bloodthirsty plans for the removal of public buildings and public personages, Mallow lent a patient and ever-attentive ear. He was surprised to find their crusade directed against the aristocracy of intellect, as well as against that other and larger aristocracy of wealth and caste. It sufficed for a man to loom large on the horizon of public affairs--be it as warrior, orator, or inventor--for him to mark the bull's-eye for their aim. They were abominably indiscriminate. In truth, with this very aptly named Monsieur Rouge at his elbow, ever ready with some fresh diabolical inspiration of his turbulent brain, Mallow could not help likening himself to a modern Dante, bent on the exploration of a new and more terrible circle of hell, with a degraded Virgil for his guide.

But, though all very fine, this was not war, as the French say, and Mallow felt he was losing sight of his purpose. Olive was in London, safe under the wing of Mrs. Purcell, waiting patiently to see what Time and his endeavours on her behalf were to bring for her. She had taken Miss Slarge and Tui into her confidence, but for her hostess she had reserved a somewhat abridged version of her recent experiences. But, with one accord, all these ladies were consumed with feminine fire and virtuous indignation against her husband. He was a downright impostor, they declared, and no doubt he it was who had murdered the unfortunate Mr. Carson. They were strenuous in their endeavours to induce Olive to put the whole matter in the hands of the police. But to this she was not to be persuaded, although she went so far as to consult Mallow upon the advisability of such a course. He speedily convinced her that the case required a manipulation much more delicate than that which it was likely to receive at the hands of the police.

"Besides," said he, "once let the police take it up, and you will have all your details, large as life, in the columns of the morning papers, to say nothing of the evening ones, than which it is difficult to conceive a more direct method of courting failure, if not disaster."

"Still, I don't know that the straightest course is not the best course, after all," said Olive, judiciously. "Why not bring Major Semberry face to face with Mrs. Purcell, and insist upon an explanation?"

"For two reasons. First, the Major is keeping out of the way. Second, he will lie like Ananias to save himself from getting into trouble. No, Mrs. Carson, let my man continue to watch him, and when he is caught tripping--as he will be, mark me, sooner or later--then will be the time to drive him into a corner."

"Can you trust this man Vraik?"

"I think so. I have promised him a large reward if he pulls the case through to my satisfaction; and he is the kind of man to sell his miserable soul for money."

"He looks like a being of the lowest type," said Olive, who had seen Vraik.

"Then he looks what he is. It is a mere accident, of course, that he is with the law instead of against it. But I dare say he finds honesty is the best possible policy, so far as cash goes, which is all that concerns him. Have no fear, Mrs. Carson, money will keep Vraik true to us, if nothing else will."

"Unless these Anarchists find out what you are doing, and treat him still more liberally."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of their find-out," laughed Mallow. "Mrs. Arne and he gang are by no means so clever as they fancy they are. She, particularly, is blinded by her own egotism. Besides, even if they did get at Vraik, they could not bribe him. They want money badly, these people; in fact it was to your fifty thousand pounds they looked to put them in funds. Unfortunately, Carson--we may still call him Carson--has gone off with the plunder."

"Do you think these Anarchists will kill him, as Mrs. Arne threatened?"

"In the end, no doubt; but not till the money is safe in their hands. At present it lies in Carson's real name, whatever that may be. It is possible they may induce him to hand it over, but it will only be to save his life. While he has that money he is safe enough. It would not serve them to kill the goose with the golden eggs. These people may not be so clever as they imagine, but they are not fools enough for that."

"Mr. Mallow, I tremble when I think of the dangers to which you are exposed. Don't these wretches suspect you?"

"No!--that is, one of them does. Jeremiah Trall looks queerly at me at times, because he has read Clara's report of our first conversation. I fancy he is suspicious that it is something more than zeal for the cause that has caused me to join. But he is safe enough. He hates Drabble, and has told him that the letter is burnt. He is not likely to trouble me. Besides, he is, I think, but a very lukewarm member of the brotherhood."

"I don't trust any of them."

"Nor I! But I am safe so far, and they are not likely to give vent to any of their explosive propensities here in London, and so run the risk of being turned out of the only country in Europe which shelters them. But I must be off, Mrs. Carson. Rouge is waiting for me round the corner."

"Oh, Laurence, do take care of yourself!" implored poor Olive, anxiously.

"Be sure of that, for your sake," and Mallow left the house, sighing to think that he had now no right to say even so much to Olive. Whosoever Carson was, Olive was his wife. "And yet"--he started as the thought crossed his mind--"was she his wife? Was it not possible her marriage might be illegal? If the man were an impostor, he had not made her his wife under his real name--marriage under a false name is no marriage, surely? By Jupiter! I'll lose no time in taking Dimbal's opinion about this," muttered Mallow to himself. "There may be some way of releasing her from that scamp's clutches, after all. But the money will have to go. Well, let it go; she will gladly pay even fifty thousand pounds for her freedom."

Round the corner--that is to say, in the back of a convenient little public-house--M. Rouge, the devil's advocate, was waiting for Mallow. It was late--after seven o'clock--and Laurence needed no clock to tell him it was dinner-time. But that day he had received a note from Rouge begging for an appointment at this especial hour. He felt obliged to keep it, lest the man might wish to say something important. As colourless and shrinking as ever Rouge stood up, cap in hand, when Laurence entered. "I am glad to see Monsieur," he said in French. "Is it that Monsieur is aware that Madame desires he should come to the great meeting next week?"

"No," replied Mallow, carelessly; "what for?"

Rouge spoke again in the husky whisper he usually affected, and looked steadily at Laurence. "It is to take the oath," he said. Laurence winced.

Rouge saw his momentary hesitancy, and smiled in that uncanny fashion of his, which often caused Mallow to think he was not quite right in his head.

"It is not too late, if Monsieur is afraid," said he, with a shrug and a sneer.

"Monsieur is not afraid," retorted Mallow sharply; "but Monsieur is wise enough to consider all things before committing himself past recall. When does the meeting take place?"

"On Wednesday next, Monsieur!"

"That is a week hence. Where?"

"In the cellar of the house in Poplar Street, Monsieur."

"In the cellar?" repeated Mallow, much surprised. "Will that be large enough?"

Rouge laughed. "Oh, Monsieur does not know all the holes in which we foxes hide. Holy Blue! it must not be that he know before he swears to be true, for he might speak to the police." The wretch's expression was feline as he whispered the last word. "But this cellar! it is a great one--c'est �norme! Madame had it made, Madame preferred it. If the police came! piff-paff! whirr! Houp-l�!" he pointed upwards.

"I see! we dance on a volcano," said Laurence, uneasily. Rouge nodded. "We would all die; the best and the worst."

"Sacrifice your own lives?"

"Yes, and those of others, Monsieur. When we take the oath we are already as dead. Let Monsieur reflect."

"Monsieur has reflected," said Laurence, giving the man money. "I shall be at Poplar Street next Wednesday. At what time?"

"Nine of the evening. It will be a great meeting, a grand meeting, and Monsieur will take the oath."

Mallow nodded. "Yes, Monsieur will take the oath," he repeated, and, after a second inquiring look, Rouge, with the money in his pocket, glided out of the room. The cat-like movements of the man, his glistening eyes and sibilant whispers, inspired Mallow with nothing but repulsion. Still he was kind to him, and, knowing the poor wretch often went without a meal, frequently gave him the price of one. Whether Rouge was grateful Mallow knew not, but he gave no sign of gratitude, and watched the young man unceasingly. He never told him his real name, nor spoke of his past in any way. His conversation, for the most part, consisted of extracts from revolutionary pamphlets, imprecations upon those in power, and expressions of jubilation for the day when a tide of blood should roll over Europe. To Mallow he was a veritable creature of nightmare.

On leaving this red-hot destroyer of human civilization, Mallow walked quickly to his lodgings in Half-Moon Street. The walk did him good. It cooled his blood and cleared his brain. As he passed by Hyde Park he noticed he was being followed. A man was dogging him like a shadow, pausing when he paused, and following him steadily at no great distance. Brave as he was, Mallow felt a qualm. He wondered if the Anarchists, suspecting him of treachery, were having him watched. He felt that suspense was worse than danger, so he determined to right-about face and know the worst at once. He turned up a side street for half a dozen yards. Then he faced round and walked back. By this manœuvre he almost ran into the arms of his follower.

"Jeremiah Trall!" exclaimed Mallow, recognizing him in the lamplight. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

Trall looked round swiftly, and beckoned Mallow into the comparative darkness of the side street. "I wish to speak with you privately," he said in his refined voice. "I am afraid of being watched."

"Come to my rooms, then."

"No," replied Trall, "they would follow. My life would not be safe. Better here." He led Mallow up some distance into a gloomy corner. "Mr. Mallow," he said, sinking his voice, "why are you joining us?"

"What is that to you?" asked Mallow, fencing.

"You have some scheme in your head, and I wish to know it. You are no true Anarchist; you don't care two pins about the cause."

Mallow reflected. The man might be trying to trap him into some incautious speech, duly to be reported to Mrs. Arne. Trall guessed the cause of his hesitation and laughed.

"You may as well tell me," he said; "I know so much about you, that I may as well know the rest."

"What do you mean, Trall?"

"That letter of Clara's. She reported to me all that passed between you and Mrs. Carson. You are bent on dissolving that marriage and getting back the money."

"Well, suppose I am. I can do that and still be true to the cause."

"No, you can't, Mr. Mallow. Carson was married to Miss Bellairs to get that money for the cause."

"Then the husband of Miss Bellairs is not really Carson."

"No, he is not. He is a tool in the hands of this infernal Drabble, as I am."

"What is this man's name--his real name?" asked Mallow.

"I don't know! I swear I don't know. Hush! I can't go on speaking to you here; they have spies everywhere. But I just want to tell you that no one but myself read that letter, and that it is in the fire. I know you are not in earnest for the cause, and I am glad of it."

"And why, may I ask, are you glad of it? You are one of them."

"I am not!" denied Jeremiah, fiercely. "I am a drunken fool under the thumb of Drabble. I wish to God the cause was at the bottom of the sea, and Drabble kicking his heels in gaol--or the scaffold, if I could only get him there. I had a position once Mr. Mallow, I am an outcast now, solely through Drabble, who has been the curse of my life. He treats me like a dog; but a dog can bite, and bite him I will when he least expects it. He has ruined me; he has brought my niece, Clara, into his cursed schemes. She, too, is under his thumb. Oh, my God! If only you knew my life's history, you would pity me. Some day I'll tell it to you, if only to show you how lost a man can become, body and soul. Drabble is a devil--curse him! Hush! don't speak; I'll go--I'll go. I only wanted to tell you that the secret of your real intentions is quite safe with me. If you can ruin Drabble, and with him that stony-hearted Jezebel, do it--do it, I say. Tread them under foot--make them suffer as I have suffered, as they have made me suffer."

Trall, gripping Mallow's hand, shook it violently, and disappeared round the corner of the street.

Mallow was too much astonished to follow him.

He walked on home. Almost at his doorstep a hand was laid upon his arm. He turned to see the villainous face of Vraik smirking at him.

"I've come to report, sir," whined the spy. "I've seen Major Semberry in conversation with a light-haired, light-bearded man."

"Who is he?"

"Francis Hain, sir!--the man who was concerned in the murder. I'm sure of it."