“ ‘Good mornin’, Mr. Heckford,’ says I, ‘I’ve come about the petition.’
“ ‘What petition?’ says he.
“ ‘The petition for the poor creature now lyin’ in Chelmsford,’ says I, ‘under sentence of death—which is legal murder,’ I says.
“ ‘Go to the devil!’ he says; they were his exact words, ‘Go to the devil.’ I was that upset that I walked straight away from the door—he didn’t even ask me in—an’ just as I got to the bottom of the front garden, he shouts, ‘What do you want him reprieved for—hasn’t he left you a pot of money’?”
Mr. Peter Sweeney was very much agitated as he repeated this callous piece of cynicism.
“That idea,” said Peter solemnly and impressively, “Must Not be Allowed to Grow.”
It was to give the lie to the wicked suggestion that Peter arranged his daily demonstration, from twelve to two. There had been such functions before, “Mass” meetings with brass bands at the very prison gates, but they were feeble mothers’ meetings compared to these demonstrations on behalf of Manfred.
The memory of the daily “service” is too fresh in the minds of the public, and particularly the Chelmsford public, to need any description here. Crowds of three thousand people were the rule, and Peter’s band blared incessantly, whilst Peter himself grew hoarse from the effect of railing his denunciation of the barbarous methods of a medieval system.
Heckford Brothers, the new motorcar firm, protested against the injury these daily paraders were inflicting on their business. That same dissipated man, looking more dissipated than ever, who had been so rude to him, called upon Peter and threatened him with injunctions. This merely had the effect of stiffening Peter Sweeney’s back, and next day the meeting lasted three hours.
In the prison, the pandemonium that went on outside penetrated even to the seclusion of Manfred’s cell, and he was satisfied.
The local police were loath to interfere and reopen the desperate quarrel that had centred around such demonstrations before.
So Peter triumphed, and the crowd of idlers that flocked to the midday gathering grew in proportion as the interest in the condemned man’s fate arose.
And the augmented band blared and the big drum boomed the louder and Rational Faith gained many new converts.
A sightseer, attracted by curiosity, was standing on the fringe of the crowd one day. He could not see the band from where he stood but he made a remarkable observation; it was nothing less than a gross reflection upon a valued member of the orchestra.
“That chap,” said this unknown critic, “is beating out of time—or else there’s two drums going.”
The man to whom he addressed his remarks listened attentively, and agreed.
The crowd had swayed back to the railings before the premises of the motor manufacturers, and as it dispersed—Peter’s party “processed” magnificently to the town before breaking up—one of the new tenants came to the door and stood, watching the melting crowd. He overheard this remark concerning the big drummer’s time, and it vexed him. When he came back to the sitting-room, where a pallid Poiccart lay supinely on a couch, he said:
“We must be careful,” and repeated the conversation.
Until six o’clock these men rested—as men must rest who have been working under a monstrous pressure of air—then they went to clear away the results of their working.
At midnight they ceased, and washed away the stains of their labours.
“Luckily,” said Poiccart, “we have many rooms to fill yet; the drawing-room can hold little more, the dining-room we need, the morning-room is packed. We must start upstairs tomorrow.”
As the work proceeded, the need for caution became more and more apparent; but no accident marred their progress, and three days before the date fixed for the execution, the two men, coming to their barely furnished living-room, looked at each other across the uncovered table that separated them, and sighed thankfully, for the work was almost finished.
“Those fellows,” said Mr. Peter Sweeney, “are not so Bad as I thought they was. One of ’em come to me today and Apologized. He was lookin’ better too, and offered to sign the petition.” Peter always gave you the impression in speaking that he was using words that began with capital letters.
“Pa,” said his son, who had a mind that dealt in material issues, “what are you going to do with Manfred’s money?”
His parent looked at him sternly.
“I shall Devote it to the Cause,” he said shortly.
“That’s you, ain’t it?” asserted the innocent child.
Peter disdained to answer.
“These young men,” he went on, “might do worse than they have done. They are more businesslike than I thought. Clarker, the town electrician, tells me that they had got a power current in their works, they have got a little gas-engine too, and from the way one of them was handling a big car today on the London road, it strikes me they know something about the business of motorcar running.”
Gonsalez, coming back from a trial trip on his noisy car, had to report a disquieting circumstance.
“She’s here,” he said, as he was washing the grime from his hands.
Poiccart looked up from his work—he was heating something in a crucible over an electric stove.
“The Woman of Gratz?” he asked.
Leon nodded.
“That is natural,” Poiccart said, and went on with his experiment.
“She saw me,” said Leon calmly.
“Oh!” said the other, unconcerned. “Manfred said—”
“That she would betray no more—I believe that, and George asked us to be good to her, that is a command.”
(There was a great deal more in Manfred’s letter to “his cousin in London” than met the governor’s eye.)
“She is an unhappy woman,” said Gonsalez gravely; “it was pitiable to see her at Wandsworth, where she stood day after day with those tragic eyes of hers on the ugly gate of the prison; here, with the result of her work in sight, she must be suffering the tortures of the damned.”
“Then tell her,” said Poiccart.
“That—”
“That George will escape.”
“I thought of that. I think George would wish it.”
“The Red Hundred has repudiated her,” Leon went on. “We were advised of that yesterday; I am
