The Council of Justice | Page 8

creases from a cutting from the Megaphone, 'men whom
the law of the land passed by, sweaters and debauchers, robbers of
public funds, corrupters of youth--men who bought 'justice' as you and
I buy bread.' He folded the paper again. 'I have prayed God that I might
one day meet you.'
'Well?' It was Manfred's voice again.
'I want to be with you, to be one of you, to share your campaign and
and--' he hesitated, then added soberly, 'if need be, the death that awaits
you.'
Manfred nodded slowly, then looked toward the man with the limp.
'What do you say, Gonsalez?' he asked.
This Leon Gonsalez was a famous reader of faces,--that much the
young man knew,--and he turned for the test and met the other's
appraising eyes.
'Enthusiast, dreamer, and intellectual, of course,' said Gonsalez slowly;
'there is reliability which is good, and balance which is better--but--'
'But--?' asked Courtlander steadily.
'There is passion, which is bad,' was the verdict.
'It is a matter of training,' answered the other quietly. 'My lot has been
thrown with people who think in a frenzy and act in madness; it is the
fault of all the organizations that seek to right wrong by indiscriminate
crime, whose sense are senses, who have debased sentiment to
sentimentality, and who muddle kings with kingship.'
'You are of the Red Hundred?' asked Manfred.

'Yes,' said the other, 'because the Red Hundred carries me a little way
along the road I wish to travel.'
'In the direction?'
'Who knows?' replied the other. 'There are no straight roads, and you
cannot judge where lies your destination by the direction the first line
of path takes.'
'I do not tell you how great a risk you take upon yourself,' said Manfred,
'nor do I labour the extent of the responsibility you ask to undertake.
You are a wealthy man?'
'Yes,' said Courtlander, 'as wealth goes; I have large estates in
Hungary.'
'I do not ask that question aimlessly, yet it would make no difference if
you were poor,' said Manfred. 'Are you prepared to sell your
estates--Buda-Gratz I believe they are called--Highness?'
For the first time the young man smiled.
'I did not doubt but that you knew me,' he said; 'as to my estates I will
sell them without hesitation.'
'And place the money at my disposal?'
'Yes,' he replied, instantly. 'Without reservation?'
'Without reservation.'
'And,' said Manfred, slowly, 'if we felt disposed to employ this money
for what might seem our own personal benefit, would you take
exception?'
'None,' said the young man, calmly.
'And as a proof?' demanded Poiccart, leaning a little forward.

'The word of a Hap--'
'Enough,' said Manfred; 'we do not want your money--yet money is the
supreme test.' He pondered awhile before he spoke again.
'There is the Woman of Gratz,' he said abruptly; 'at the worst she must
be killed.'
'It is a pity,' said Courtlander, a little sadly. He had answered the final
test did he but know it. A too willing compliance, an over-eagerness to
agree with the supreme sentence of the 'Four', any one thing that might
have betrayed the lack of that exact balance of mind, which their word
demanded, would have irretrievably condemned him.
'Let us drink an arrogant toast,' said Manfred, beckoning a waiter. The
wine was opened and the glasses filled, and Manfred muttered the toast.
'The Four who were three, to the Fourth who died and the Fourth who
is born.'
Once upon a time there was a fourth who fell riddled with bullets in a
Bordeaux cafe, and him they pledged. In Middlesex Street, in the
almost emptied hall, Falmouth stood at bay before an army of reporters.
'Were they the Four Just Men, Mr. Falmouth?'
'Did you see them?'
'Have you any clue?'
Every second brought a fresh batch of newspaper men, taxi after taxi
came into the dingy street, and the string of vehicles lined up outside
the hall was suggestive of a fashionable gathering. The Telephone
Tragedy was still fresh in the public mind, and it needed no more than
the utterance of the magical words 'Four Just Men' to fan the spark of
interest to flame again. The delegates of the Red Hundred formed a
privileged throng in the little wilderness of a forecourt, and through
these the journalists circulated industriously.

Smith of the Megaphone and his youthful assistant, Maynard, slipped
through the crowd and found their taxi.
Smith shouted a direction to the driver and sank back in the seat with a
whistle of weariness.
'Did you hear those chaps talking about police protection?' he asked;
'all the blessed anarchists from all over the world--and talking like a
mothers' meeting! To hear 'em you would think they were the most
respectable members of society that the world had