“We ain’t snide merchants,” growled Falk discontentedly.
“It’s the same with all branches,” Jessen went on, “only you chaps don’t know it. Take tale-pitching—”
It would not be fair to follow Jessen through the elaborate disquisition by which he proved to the satisfaction of his audience that the “confidence” man was a born commercial traveller. Many of his arguments were as unsound as they could well be; he ignored first principles, and glossed over what seemed to such a clearheaded hearer as Charles to be insuperable obstacles in the scheme of regeneration. But his audience was convinced. The fringe of men round the fire was reinforced as he continued. Men came into the room singly, and in twos and threes, and added themselves to the group at the fire. The news had spread that Jessen was talking—they called him “Mr. Long,” by the way—and some of the newcomers arrived breathlessly, as though they had run in order that no part of the address should be missed.
That the advocate of discontent had succeeded in installing into the minds of his hearers that unrest and dissatisfaction which he held to be the basis of a new moral code, was certain. For every face bore the stamp of introspective doubt.
Interesting as it all was, Charles Garrett had not lost sight of the object of his visit, and he fidgeted a little as the speaker proceeded.
Immediately on entering the room he had grasped the exact relationship in which Jessen stood to his pupils. Jessen he knew could put no direct question as to their knowledge of the Four Just Men without raising a feeling of suspicion which would have been fatal to the success of the mission, and indeed would have imperilled the very existence of the “Guild.”
It was when Jessen had finished speaking, and had answered a dozen questions fired simultaneously from a dozen quarters, and had answered the questions that had arisen out of these queries, that an opening came from an unexpected quarter.
For, with the serious business of the meeting disposed of, the questions took the inevitable facetious turn.
“What trade would you give the Four Just Men?” asked Falk flippantly, and there was a little rumble of laughter.
The journalist’s eyes met the reformer’s for one second, and through the minds of both men flashed the answer. Jessen’s mouth twitched a little, and his restless hands were even more agitated as he replied slowly:
“If anybody can tell me exactly what the Four Just Men—what their particular line of business is, I could reply to that.”
It was the old man sipping his gin in silence who spoke for the first time.
“D’ye remember Billy Marks?” he asked.
His voice was harsh, as is that of a man who uses his voice at rare intervals.
“Billy Marks is dead,” he continued, “deader than a doornail. He knew the Four Just Men; pinched the watch an’ the notebook of one, an’ nearly pinched them.”
There was a man who sat next to Falk who had been regarding Charles with furtive attention.
Now he turned to Jessen and spoke to the point.
“Don’t get any idea in your head that the likes of us will ever have anything to do with the Four,” he said. “Why, Mr. Long,” he went on, “the Four Just Men are as likely to come to you as to us; bein’ as you are a government official, it’s very likely indeed.”
Again Jessen and Charles exchanged a swift glance, and in the eyes of the journalist was a strange light.
Suppose they came to Jessen! It was not unlikely.
Once before, in pursuing their vengeance in a South American State, they had come to such a man as Jessen.
It was a thought, and one worth following.
Turning the possibilities over in his mind Charles stood deep in thought as Jessen, still speaking, was helped into his overcoat by one of the men.
Then as they left the hall together, passing the custodian of the place at the foot of the stairs, the journalist turned to his companion.
“Should they come to you—?”
Jessen shook his head.
“That is unlikely,” he said; “they hardly require outside help.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Charles shook hands at the door of Jessen’s house.
“If by any chance they should come—” he said.
Jessen laughed.
“I will let you know,” he said a little ironically.
Then he entered his house, and Charles heard again the snap of the lock as the strange man closed the door behind him.
Within twenty-four hours the newspapers recorded the mysterious disappearance of a Mr. J. Long, of Presley Street. Such a disappearance would have been without interest, but for a note that was found on his table. It ran:
“Mr. Long being necessary for our purpose, we have taken him.
That the affair had connection with the Four was sufficient to give it an extraordinary news value. That the press was confounded goes without saying. For Mr. Long was a fairly unimportant man with some self-education and a craze for reforming the criminal classes. But the Home Office, which knew Mr. Long as “
