The Council of Justice | Page 9

well off, and to have a way with women.
'So it would appear,' he said, 'that we may say "Let the kings be slain", but not "Let the king be slain"; also that we may preach the downfall of governments, but if we say "Let us go into this cafe"--how do you call it?--"public-house, and be rude to the proprietaire" we commit a--er--breach of the peace--ne c'est pas?
'It is so,' said Francois, 'that is the English way.'
'It is a mad way,' said the other.
They reached the door of the girl's pension. She had been very quiet during the walk, answering questions that were put to her in monosyllables. She had ample food for thought in the events of the night.
Francois bade her a curt good night and walked a little distance. It had come to be regarded as Starque's privilege to stand nearest the girl. Now he took her slim hands in his and looked down at her. Some one has said the East begins at Bukarest, but there is a touch of the Eastern in every Hungarian, and there is a crudeness in their whole attitude to womankind that shocks the more tender susceptibilities of the Western.
'Good night, little Maria,' he said in a low voice. 'Some day you will be kinder, and you will not leave me at the door.' She looked at him steadfastly. 'That will never be,' she replied, without a tremor.
CHAPTER III.
Jessen, alias Long
The front page of every big London daily was again black with the story of the Four Just Men.
'What I should like,' said the editor of the Megaphone, wistfully, 'is a sort of official propaganda from the Four--a sort of inspired manifesto that we could spread into six columns.'
Charles Garret, the Megaphone's 'star' reporter, with his hat on the back of his head, and an apparently inattentive eye fixed on the electrolier, sniffed.
The editor looked at him reflectively.
'A smart man might get into touch with them.'
Charles said, 'Yes,' but without enthusiasm.
'If it wasn't that I knew you,' mused the editor, 'I should say you were afraid.'
'I am,' said Charles shamelessly.
'I don't want to put a younger reporter on this job,' said the editor sadly, 'it would look bad for you; but I'm afraid I must.'
'Do,' said Charles with animation, 'do, and put me down ten shillings toward the wreath.'
He left the office a few minutes later with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and one fixed determination in the deepest and most secret recesses of his heart. It was rather like Charles that, having by an uncompromising firmness established his right to refuse work of a dangerous character, he should of his own will undertake the task against which he had officially set his face. Perhaps his chief knew him as well as he knew himself, for as Charles, with a last defiant snort, stalked from the office, the smile that came to his lips was reflected on the editor's face.
Walking through the echoing corridors of Megaphone House, Charles whistled that popular and satirical song, the chorus of which runs--
By kind permission of the Megaphone,
By kind permission of the Megaphone. Summer comes when Spring has gone,
And the world goes spinning on,
By permission of the Daily Megaphone.
Presently, he found himself in Fleet Street, and, standing at the edge of the curb, he answered a taxi-driver's expectant look with a nod.
'Where to, sir?' asked the driver.
'37 Presley Street, Walworth--round by the "Blue Bob" and the second turning to the left.'
Crossing Waterloo Bridge it occurred to him that the taxi might attract attention, so half-way down the Waterloo Road he gave another order, and, dismissing the vehicle, he walked the remainder of the way.
Charles knocked at 37 Presley Street, and after a little wait a firm step echoed in the passage, and the door was half opened. The passage was dark, but he could see dimly the thick-set figure of the man who stood waiting silently.
'Is that Mr. Long?' he asked.
'Yes,' said the man curtly.
Charles laughed, and the man seemed to recognize the voice and opened the door a little wider.
'Not Mr. Garrett?' he asked in surprise.
'That's me,' said Charles, and walked into the house.
His host stopped to fasten the door, and Charles heard the snap of the well-oiled lock and the scraping of a chain. Then with an apology the man pushed past him and, opening the door, ushered him into a well-lighted room, motioned Charles to a deep-seated chair, seated himself near a small table, turned down the page of the book from which he had evidently been reading, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
'I've come to consult you,' said Charles.
A lesser man than Mr. Long might have been grossly flippant, but this young man--he was thirty-five, but looked older--did not descend to such a level.
'I wanted to consult