“Fritz von Hedlitz,” he read, “Chancellor to the Duchy of Hamburg-Altoona.”
He looked round the board and smiled.
“A man of some initiative, comrades—he foiled our attempt on his master with some cunning—do I interpret your desire when I say—death?”
“Death!”
It was a low murmured chorus.
Bartholomew, renegade and adventurer, said it mechanically. It was nothing to him a brave gentleman should die for no other reason than that he had served his master faithfully.
“Marquis de Santo-Strato, private secretary to the Prince of the Escorial,” read Starque.
“Death!” Again the murmured sentence.
One by one, Starque read the names, stopping now and again to emphasize some enormity of the man under review.
“Here is Hendrik Houssmann,” he said, tapping the paper, “of the Berlin Secret Police: an interfering man and a dangerous one. He has already secured the arrest and punishment of one of our comrades.”
“Death,” murmured the council mechanically.
The list took half an hour to dispose of.
“There is another matter,” said Starque.
The council moved uneasily, for that other matter was uppermost in every mind.
“By some means we have been betrayed,” the chairman went on, and his voice lacked that confidence which characterized his earlier speech; “there is an organization—an organization of reaction—which has set itself to thwart us. That organization has discovered our identity.” He paused a little.
“This morning I received a letter which named me president of the Inner Council and threatened me.” Again he hesitated.
“It was signed ‘The Four Just Men.’ ”
His statement was received in dead silence—a silence that perplexed him, for his compensation for the shock he had received had been the anticipation of the sensation his announcement would make.
He was soon enlightened as to the cause of the silence.
“I also have received a letter,” said François quietly.
“And I.”
“And I.”
“And I.”
Only Bartholomew did not speak, and he felt the unspoken accusation of the others.
“I have received no letter,” he said with an easy laugh—“only these.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced two beans. There was nothing peculiar in these save one was a natural black and the other had been dyed red.
“What do they mean?” demanded Starque suspiciously.
“I have not the slightest idea,” said Bartholomew with a contemptuous smile; “they came in a little box, such as jewellery is sent in, and were unaccompanied either by letter or anything of the kind. These mysterious messages do not greatly alarm me.”
“But what does it mean?” persisted Starque, and every neck was craned toward the seeds; “they must have some significance—think.”
Bartholomew yawned.
“So far as I know, they are beyond explanation,” he said carelessly; “neither red nor black beans have played any conspicuous part in my life, so far as I—”
He stopped short and they saw a wave of colour rush to his face, then die away, leaving it deadly pale.
“Well?” demanded Starque; there was a menace in the question.
“Let me see,” faltered Bartholomew, and he took up the red bean with a hand that shook.
He turned it over and over in his hand, calling up his reserve of strength.
He could not explain, that much he realized.
The explanation might have been possible had he realized earlier the purport of the message he had received, but now with six pairs of suspicious eyes turned upon him, and with his confusion duly noted, his hesitation would tell against him.
He had to invent a story that would pass muster.
“Years ago,” he began, holding his voice steady, “I was a member of such an organization as this: and—and there was a traitor.” The story was plain to him now, and he recovered his balance. “The traitor was discovered and we balloted for his life. There was an equal number for death and immunity, and I as president had to give the casting vote. A red bean was for life and a black for death—and I cast my vote for the man’s death.”
He saw the impression his invention had created and elaborated the story. Starque, holding the red bean in his hand, examined it carefully.
“I have reason to think that by my action I made many enemies, one of whom probably sent this reminder.” He breathed an inward sigh of relief as he saw the clouds of doubt lifting from the faces about him. Then—
“And the £1,000?” asked Starque quietly.
Nobody saw Bartholomew bite his lip, because his hand was caressing his soft black moustache. What they all observed was the well simulated surprise expressed in the lift of his eyebrows.
“The thousand pounds?” he said puzzled, then he laughed. “Oh, I see you, too, have heard the story—we found the traitor had accepted that sum to betray us—and this we confiscated for the benefit of the Society—and rightly so,” he added, indignantly.
The murmur of approbation relieved him of any fear as to the result of his explanation.
Even Starque smiled.
“I did not know the story,” he said, “but I did see the ‘£1,000’ which had been scratched on the side of the red bean; but this brings us no nearer to the solution of the mystery. Who has betrayed us to the Four Just Men?”
There came, as he spoke, a gentle tapping on the door of the room. François, who sat at the president’s right hand, rose stealthily and tiptoed to the door.
“Who is there?” he asked in a low voice.
Somebody spoke in German, and
