The Council of Justice - Edgar Wallace (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

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 far-away 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

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 demi-god, 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

dissociate 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 and held it between his

palms.

 

‘Child, you must leave this work,’ he said softly, ‘forget the

nightmare of your past—put it out of your mind, so that you will come

to believe that the Red Hundred never existed.’

 

She did not draw away her hand, nor did she attempt to check the

tears that came to her eyes. Something had entered her soul—an

influence that was beyond all description or definition. A wonderful

element that had dissolved the thing of granite and steel, that she had

fondly thought was her heart, and left her weak and shaking in the

process.

 

‘Maria, if you ever knew a mother’s love’—how soft his voice was—

‘think of that: have you ever realized what your tiny life was to her—

how she planned and thought and suffered for you—and to what end? That

the hands she kissed should be set against men’s lives! Did she pray to

God that He might keep you strong in health and pure in soul—only that

His gifts should prove a curse to His beautiful world?’

 

With the tenderness of a father he drew her to him, till she was on

her knees before him and her weeping face was pressed closely against

him.

 

His strong arms were about her, and his hand smoothed her hair.

 

‘I am a wicked woman,’ she sobbed, ‘a wicked, wicked woman.’

 

‘Hush,’ he said sadly; ‘do not let us take our conception of

wickedness from our deeds, but from our intentions, however mistaken,

however much they traverse the written law.’

 

But her sobbing grew wilder, and she clutched him as though in fear

that he would leave her.

 

He talked to her as though she were a frightened child, chiding her,

laughing at her in gentle raillery, and she grew calmer and presently

lifted her stained face to his.

 

‘Listen,’ she said; ‘I—I—oh, I cannot, I cannot say it.’ And she

buried her face on her breast.

 

Then with an effort she raised her head again.

 

‘If I asked you—if I begged you to do something for me—would

you?’

 

He looked into her eyes, smiling.

 

‘You have done many things—you have killed—yes—yes, let me say

it—I know I am hurting you, but let me finish.’

 

‘Yes,’ he said simply; ‘I have killed.’

 

‘Have you—pitied as you killed?’

 

He shook his head.

 

‘Yet you would,’ she went on, and her distress moved him, ‘you would

if you thought that you could kill a body and save a soul.’

 

He shook his head again.

 

‘Yes, yes,’ she whispered, and tried to speak. Twice she attempted

to frame the words, and twice she failed. Then she pushed herself

slowly backwards with her hands at his chest, and crouched before him

with parted lips and heaving bosom.

 

‘Kill me,’ she breathed, ‘for I have betrayed you to the

police.’

 

Still he made no sign, sitting there all huddled in the big chair,

as though every muscle of his body had relaxed.

 

‘Do you hear?’ she cried fiercely. ‘I have betrayed you because—I

think—I love you—but I—I did not know it—I did not know it! I hated

you so that I pitied you—and always I thought of you!’

 

She knew by the look of pain in his eyes what her words had cost

him.

 

Somehow she divined that the betrayal hurt least.

 

‘I have never said it to myself,’ she whispered; ‘I have never

thought it in my most secret thoughts—yet it was there, there all the

time, waiting for expression—and I am happier, though you die, and

though every hour of my life be a lifetime of pain, I am happier that I

have said it, happier than I thought I could ever be.

 

‘I have wondered why I remembered you, and why I thought of you, and

why you came into my every dream. I thought it was because I hated you,

because I wanted to kill you, and to hold you at my mercy—but I know

now, I know now.’

 

She rocked from side to side, clasping her hands in the intensity of

her passion.

 

‘You do not speak?’ she cried. ‘Do you not understand, beloved? I

have handed you over to the police, because—O God! because I love you!

It must be that I do!’

 

He leant forward and held out his hands and she came to him half

swooning.

 

‘Marie, child,’ he murmured, and she saw how pale he was, ‘we are

strangely placed, you and I to talk of love. You must forget this,

little girl; let this be the waking point of your bad dream; go forth

into the new life—into a life where flowers are, and birds sing, and

where rest and peace is.’

 

She had no thought now save for his danger.

 

‘They are below,’ she moaned. ‘I brought them here—I guided

them.’

 

He smiled into her face.

 

‘I knew,’ he said.

 

She looked at him incredulously.

 

‘You knew,’ she said, slowly.

 

‘Yes—when you came’—he pointed to the heap of burnt papers in the

grate—‘I knew.’

 

He walked to the window and looked out. What he saw satisfied

him.

 

He came back to where she still crouched on the floor and lifted her

to her feet.

 

She stood unsteadily, but his arm supported her. He was listening,

he heard the door open below.

 

‘You must not think of me,’ he said again.

 

She shook her head helplessly, and her lips quivered.

 

‘God bless you and help you,’ he said reverently, and kissed

her.

 

Then he turned to meet Falmouth.

 

‘George Manfred,’ said the officer, and looked at the girl in

perplexity.

 

‘That is my name,’ said Manfred quietly. ‘You are Inspector

Falmouth.’

 

‘Superintendent,’ corrected the other.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Manfred.

 

‘I shall take you into custody,’ said Falmouth, ‘on suspicion of

being a member of an organization known as the Four Just Men, and

accordingly concerned in the following crimes—’

 

‘I will excuse you the recital,’ said Manfred pleasantly, and held

out his hands. For the first time in his life he felt the cold contact

of steel at his wrists.

 

The man who snapped the handcuffs on was nervous and bungled, and

Manfred, after an interested glance at the gyves, lifted his hands.

 

‘This is not quite fastened,’ he said.

 

Then as they closed round him, he half turned toward the girl and

smiled.

 

‘Who knows how bright are the days in store for us both?’ he said

softly.

 

Then they took him away.

 

CHAPTER XII. In Wandsworth Gaol

 

Charles Garrett, admirable journalist, had written the last line of

a humorous description of a local concert at which a cabinet minister

had sung pathetic ballads. Charles wrote with difficulty, for the

situation had been of itself so funny, that extracting its hidden

humours was a more than ordinarily heartbreaking thing. But he had

finished and the thick batch of copy lay on the chief sub-editor’s

desk—Charles wrote on an average six words to a folio, and a half a

column story from his