They were old, old platitudes, if the truth be told, but at some time in the history of revolution, some long dead genius had coined them, and newly fashioned in the furnace of his soul they had shaped men’s minds and directed their great and dreadful deeds.
So the Woman of Gratz arrived, and they talked about her and circulated her speeches in every language. And she grew. The hollow face of this lank girl filled, and the flat bosom rounded and there came softer lines and curves to her angular figure, and, almost before they realised the fact, she was beautiful.
So her fame had grown until her father died and she went to Russia. Then came a series of outrages which may be categorically and briefly set forth:—
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General Maloff shot dead by an unknown woman in his private room at the Police Bureau, Moscow.
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Prince Hazallarkoff shot dead by an unknown woman in the streets of Petrograd.
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Colonel Kaverdavskov killed by a bomb thrown by a woman who made her escape.
And the Woman of Gratz leapt to a greater fame. She had been arrested half a dozen times, and whipped twice, but they could prove nothing against her and elicit nothing from her—and she was very beautiful.
Now to the thundering applause of the waiting delegates, she stepped upon the platform and took the last speaker’s place by the side of the red-covered table.
She raised her hand and absolute and complete silence fell on the hall, so much so that her first words sounded strident and shrill, for she had attuned her voice to the din. She recovered her pitch and dropped her voice to a conversational tone.
She stood easily with her hands clasped behind her and made no gesture. The emotion that was within her she conveyed through her wonderful voice. Indeed, the power of the speech lay rather in its delivery than in its substance, for only now and then did she depart from the unwritten text of Anarchism: the right of the oppressed to overthrow the oppressor; the divinity of violence; the sacredness of sacrifice and martyrdom in the cause of enlightenment. One phrase alone stood apart from the commonplace of her oratory. She was speaking of the Theorists who counsel reform and condemn violence, “These Christs who deputize their Calvaries,” she called them with fine scorn, and the hall roared its approval of the imagery.
It was the fury of the applause that disconcerted her; the taller of the two men who sat watching her realized that much. For when the shouting had died down and she strove to resume, she faltered and stammered and then was silent. Then abruptly and with surprising vehemence she began again. But she had changed the direction of her oratory, and it was upon another subject that she now spoke. A subject nearer to her at that moment than any other, for her pale cheeks flushed and a feverish light came to her eyes as she spoke.
“… and now, with all our perfect organization, with the world almost within our grasp—there comes somebody who says ‘Stop!’—and we who by our acts have terrorized kings and dominated the councils of empires, are ourselves threatened!”
The audience grew deadly silent. They were silent before, but now the silence was painful.
The two men who watched her stirred a little uneasily, as though something in her speech had jarred. Indeed, the suggestion of braggadocio in her assertion of the Red Hundred’s power had struck a discordant note.
The girl continued speaking rapidly.
“We have heard—you have heard—we know of these men who have written to us. They say”—her voice rose—“that we shall not do what we do. They threaten us—they threaten me—that we must change our methods, or they will punish as—as we—punish; kill as we kill—”
There was a murmuring in the audience and men looked at one another in amazement. For terror unmistakable and undisguised was written on her pale face and shone from those wondrous eyes of hers.
“But we will defy—”
Loud voices and the sound of scuffling in the little anteroom interrupted her, and a warning word shouted brought the audience to its feet.
“The police!”
A hundred stealthy hands reached for cunning pockets, but somebody leapt upon a bench, near the entrance, and held up an authoritative hand.
“Gentlemen, there is no occasion for alarm—I am Detective-Superintendent Falmouth from Scotland Yard, and I have no quarrel with the Red Hundred.”
Little Peter, transfixed for the moment, pushed his way towards the detective.
“Who do you want—what do you want?” he asked.
The detective stood with his back to the door and answered.
“I want two men who were seen to enter this hall: two members of an organization that is outside the Red Hundred. They—”
“Ha!” The woman who still stood upon the platform leant forward with blazing eyes.
“I know—I know!” she cried breathlessly; “the men who threatened us—who threatened me—The Four Just Men!”
II
The Fourth Man
The tall man’s hand was in his pocket when the detective spoke.
When he had entered the hall he had thrown a swift glance round the place and taken in every detail. He had seen the beaded strip of unpainted wood which guarded the electric light cables, and had improved the opportunity whilst the prosy brother was speaking to make a further reconnaissance. There was a white porcelain switchboard with half a dozen switches at the left-hand side of the platform. He judged the distance and threw up the hand that held the pistol.
Bang! Bang!
A crash of broken glass, a quick flash of blue flame from the shattered fuses—and the hall was in darkness. It happened before the detective could spring from his form into the yelling, screaming crowd—before the police officer could get a
