Chapter 1

"THE MISSING MAN."

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.