“Nor I!” said the private secretary emphatically.
Sir Philip shrugged his shoulders with a weary laugh.
“What does it matter?—they know,” he exclaimed; “by what uncanny method they have learnt the secret I neither know nor care. The question is, can I be adequately protected tomorrow night at eight o’clock?”
Falmouth shut his teeth.
“Either you’ll come out of it alive or, by the Lord, they’ll kill two,” he said, and there was a gleam in his eye that spoke for his determination.
The news that yet another letter had reached the great statesman was on the streets at ten o’clock that night. It circulated through the clubs and theatres, and between the acts grave-faced men stood in the vestibules discussing Ramon’s danger. The House of Commons was seething with excitement. In the hope that the minister would come down, a strong House had gathered, but the members were disappointed, for it was evident soon after the dinner recess that Sir Philip had no intention of showing himself that night.
“Might I ask the right honourable the prime minister whether it is the intention of his Majesty’s Government to proceed with the Aliens Extradition (Political Offence) Bill,” asked the Radical member for West Deptford, “and whether he has not considered, in view of the extraordinary conditions that this bill has called into life, the advisability of postponing the introduction of this measure?”
The question was greeted with a chorus of “hears,” and the prime minister rose slowly and turned an amused glance in the direction of the questioner.
“I know of no circumstance that is likely to prevent my right honourable friend, who is unfortunately not in his place tonight, from moving the second reading of the bill tomorrow,” he said, and sat down.
“What the devil was he grinning at?” grumbled West Deptford to a neighbour.
“He’s deuced uncomfortable, is J. K.,” said the other wisely, “deuced uncomfortable; a man in the cabinet was telling me today that old J. K. has been feeling deuced uncomfortable. ‘You mark my words,’ he said, ‘this Four Just Men business is making the premier deuced uncomfortable,’ ” and the hon. member subsided to allow West Deptford to digest his neighbour’s profundities.
“I’ve done my best to persuade Ramon to drop the bill,” the premier was saying, “but he is adamant, and the pitiable thing is that he believes in his heart of hearts that these fellows intend keeping faith.”
“It is monstrous,” said the colonial secretary hotly; “it is inconceivable that such a state of affairs can last. Why, it strikes at the root of everything, it unbalances every adjustment of civilization.”
“It is a poetical idea,” said the phlegmatic premier, “and the standpoint of the Four is quite a logical one. Think of the enormous power for good or evil often vested in one man: a capitalist controlling the markets of the world, a speculator cornering cotton or wheat whilst mills stand idle and people starve, tyrants and despots with the destinies of nations between their thumb and finger—and then think of the four men, known to none; vague, shadowy figures stalking tragically through the world, condemning and executing the capitalist, the corner-maker, the tyrant—evil forces all, and all beyond reach of the law. We have said of these people, such of us as are touched with mysticism, that God would judge them. Here are men arrogating to themselves the divine right of superior judgment. If we catch them they will end their lives unpicturesquely, in a matter-of-fact, commonplace manner in a little shed in Pentonville Gaol, and the world will never realize how great the artists who perish.”
“But Ramon?”
The premier smiled.
“Here, I think, these men have just overreached themselves. Had they been content to slay first and explain their mission afterwards I have little doubt that Ramon would have died. But they have warned and warned and exposed their hand a dozen times over. I know nothing of the arrangements that are being made by the police, but I should imagine that by tomorrow night it will be as difficult to get within a dozen yards of Ramon as it would be for a Siberian prisoner to dine with the Czar.”
“Is there no possibility of Ramon withdrawing the bill?” asked the Colonies.
The premier shook his head.
“Absolutely none,” he said.
The rising of a member of the Opposition front bench at that moment to move an amendment to a clause under discussion cut short the conversation.
The House rapidly emptied when it became generally known that Ramon did not intend appearing, and the members gathered in the smoking-room and lobby to speculate upon the matter which was uppermost in their minds.
In the vicinity of Palace Yard a great crowd had gathered, as in London crowds will gather, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the man whose name was in every mouth. Street vendors sold his portrait, frowsy men purveying the real life and adventures of the Four Just Men did a roaring trade, and itinerant street singers, introducing extemporized verses into their repertoire, declined the courage of that statesman bold, who dared for to resist the threats of coward alien and deadly anarchist.
There was praise in these poor lyrics for Sir Philip, who was trying to prevent the foreigner from taking the bread out of the mouths of honest workingmen.
The humour of which appealed greatly to Manfred; he and Poiccart had driven to the Westminster end of the Embankment and, having dismissed their cab, were walking to Whitehall.
“I think the verse about the ‘deadly foreign anarchist’ taking the bread out of the mouth of the homemade variety is distinctly good,” chuckled Manfred.
Both men were in evening dress, and Poiccart wore in his buttonhole the silken button of a Chevalier of the Legion d’Honneur.
Manfred continued:
“I doubt whether London has had such a sensation since—when?”
Poiccart’s grim smile caught the other’s eye and he smiled in sympathy.
“Well?”
“I asked the same question of the maître d’hôtel,” he said slowly, like a
