The Malefactor | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Theresa Armao of Albany, New York

THE MALEFACTOR
by E. Phillips Oppenheim

CONTENTS
BOOK I
Chapter
I. A Society Scandal II. Outside the Pale III. A Student of Character IV.
A Delicate Mission V. The Gospel of Hate VI. "Hast Thou Found Me,
O Mine Enemy?" VII. Lord of the Manor VIII. The Heart of a Child IX.
The Sword of Damocles X. A Forlorn Hope XI. Professor Sinclair's
Dancing Academy XII. Mephistopheles on a Steamer XIII. A Cockney
Conspirator XIV. The Moth and the Candle XV. "Devil Take the
Hindmost" XVI. The Hidden Hand
BOOK II
I. "Mr. Wingrave, From America" II. The Shadow of a Fear III. Juliet
Asks Questions IV. Lady Ruth's Last Card V. Guardian and Ward VI.

Ghosts of Dead Things. VII. Spreading the Net VIII. In the Toils IX.
The Indiscretion of the Marchioness X. "I am Misanthropos, and Hate
Mankind" XI. Juliet Gains Experience XII. Nemesis at Work XIII.
Richardson Tries Again XIV. "It Was an Accident" XV. Aynesworth
Plans a Love Story XVI. A Deed of Gift XVII. For Pity's Sake XVIII.A
Dream of Paradise XIX. The Awakening XX. Revenge is--Bitter XXI.
The Way of Peace XXII. "Love Shall Make all Things New"
Book I
A SOCIETY SCANDAL
Tall and burly, with features and skin hardened by exposure to the sun
and winds of many climates, he looked like a man ready to face all
hardships, equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the
clothes and habits of civilization falling away from him, the former to
be replaced by the stern, unlovely outfit of the war correspondent who
plays the game. They crowded round him in the club smoking room,
for these were his last few minutes. They had dined him, toasted him,
and the club loving cup had been drained to his success and his safe
return. For Lovell was a popular member of this very Bohemian
gathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few hours' notice, to
represent one of the greatest of English dailies.
A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking.
His name was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short
stories-- a novelist in embryo.
"What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the
deadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me
that we live the life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or we
bore ourselves, and we sleep--and all the rest of the world does the
same. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by
analysis. The storms which shake humanity break over other countries.
What is there left to us of life? Civilization ministers too easily to our
needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a tired
race."

"Life is the same, the world over," another man remarked. "With every
forward step in civilization, life must become more mechanical.
London is no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo."
Aynesworth shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he replied. "It is
the same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxon
temperament, with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more
than any other, gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here
has become fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a
gauge for our emotions. Lovell is going where the one great force of
primitive life remains. He is going to see war. He is going to breathe an
atmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going to rub shoulders with
men who walk hand in hand with death. That's the sort of tonic we all
want, to remind us that we are human beings with blood in our veins,
and not sawdust-stuffed dolls."
Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his