They had made the name of the Four Just Men famous or infamous (according to your point of reckoning) throughout the civilized world. They came as a new force into public and private life. There were men, free of the law, who worked misery on their fellows; dreadful human ghouls fattening on the bodies and souls of the innocent and helpless; great magnates calling the law to their aid, or pushing it aside as circumstances demanded. All these became amenable to a new law, a new tribunal. There had grown into being systems which defied correction; corporations beyond chastisement; individuals protected by cunningly drawn legislation, and others who knew to an inch the scope of toleration. In the name of justice, these men struck swiftly, dispassionately, mercilessly. The great swindler, the procureur, the suborner of witnesses, the briber of juries—they died.
There was no gradation of punishment: a warning, a second warning—then death.
Thus their name became a symbol, at which the evildoer went tremblingly about his work, dreading the warning and ready in most cases to heed it. Life became a sweeter, a more wholesome thing for many men who found the thin greenish-grey envelope on their breakfast-table in the morning; but others persisted on their way, loudly invoking the law, which in spirit, if not in letter, they had outraged. The end was very sure, and I do not know of one man who escaped the consequence.
Speculating on their identity, the police of the world decided unanimously upon two points. The first was that these men were enormously rich—as indeed they were, and the second that one or two of them were no mean scientists—that also was true. Of the fourth man who had joined them recently, speculation took a wider turn. Manfred smiled as he thought of this fourth member, of his honesty, his splendid qualities of heart and brain, his enthusiasm, and his proneness to “lapse from the balance”—Gonsalez coined the phrase. It was an affectionate smile. The fourth man was no longer of the brotherhood; he had gone, the work being completed, and there were other reasons.
So Manfred was musing, till the little clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten, then he lit the spirit-kettle and brewed another cup of coffee. Thus engaged, he heard the faraway tinkle of a bell and the opening of a door. Then a murmur of voices and two steps on the stairs. He did not expect visitors, but he was always prepared for them at any hour.
“Come in,” he said, in answer to the knock; he recognized the apologetic rap of his housekeeper.
“A lady—a foreign lady to see you.”
“Show her in, please,” he said courteously.
He was busy with the kettle when she came in. He did not look up, nor did he ask who it was. His housekeeper stood a moment uncertain on the threshold, then went out, leaving them together.
“You will excuse me a moment,” he said. “Please sit down.”
He poured out the coffee with a steady hand, walked to his desk, sorted a number of letters, tossed them into the grate, and stood for a moment watching them burn, then looked at her.
Taking no notice of his invitation, the girl stood waiting at ease, one hand on her hip, the other hanging loosely.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked again.
“I prefer to stand,” she said shortly.
“Then you are not so tired as I am,” he said, and sank back into the depths of his chair.
She did not reply, and for a few seconds neither spoke.
“Has the Woman of Gratz forgotten that she is an orator?” he said banteringly. It seemed to him that there was in those eyes of hers a great yearning, and he changed his tone.
“Sit down, Maria,” he said gently. He saw the flush that rose to her cheek, and mistook its significance.
“No, no!” he hastened to rectify an impression. “I am serious now, I am not gibing—why have you not gone with the others?”
“I have work to do,” she said.
He stretched out his hands in a gesture of weariness.
“Work, work, work!” he said with a bitter smile, “isn’t the work finished? Isn’t there an end to this work of yours?”
“The end is at hand,” she said, and looked at him strangely.
“Sit down,” he commanded, and she took the nearest chair and watched him.
Then she broke the silence.
“What are you?” she asked, with a note of irritation. “Who gave you authority?”
He laughed.
“What am I—just a man, Maria. Authority? As you understand it—none.”
She was thoughtful for a moment.
“You have not asked me why I have come,” she said.
“I have not asked myself—yet it seems natural that you and I should meet again—to part.”
“What do they call you—your friends?” she asked suddenly. “Do they say ‘The man with the beard,’ or ‘The tall man’—did any woman ever nurse you and call you by name?”
A shadow passed over his face for a second.
“Yes,” he said quietly; “I have told you I am human; neither devil nor demigod, no product of sea-foam or witches’ cauldron,” he smiled, “but a son of earthly parents—and men call me George Manfred.”
“George,” she repeated as though learning a lesson. “George Manfred.” She looked at him long and earnestly, and frowned.
“What is it you see that displeases you?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, “only I am—I cannot understand—you are different—”
“From what you expected.” She bent her head. “You expected me to air a triumph. To place myself in defence?” She nodded again.
“No, no,” he went on, “that is finished. I do not pursue a victory—I am satisfied that the power of your friends is shattered. I disassociate you from the humiliation of their defeat.”
“I am no better nor worse than they,” she said defiantly.
“You will be better when the madness passes,” he said gravely, “when you realize that your young life was not meant for the dreadful sacrifice of anarchy.”
He leant over and took her listless hand
