The Visionists

I

FOR several moments nobody spoke. The five sat about the table staring at the dice upon the green baize cover. Nomé had thrown double-six; the number was not only decisive as to its choice of her, but in its definite extreme it seemed to affirm that no one else could possibly have been selected by Destiny. She gazed at the little cubes with wide eyes, her lips apart, and her hand laid upon her breast to still the beating of her heart. It was like a sentence of death—as if she were suddenly picked off and left alone, while the universe receded from her. But she did not blench.

Irma Strieb watched her jealously from beneath heavy auburn brows, biting her lip to conceal its sullen droop. Little Ospovat had turned clay-white about the mouth and stared glassily, as if he were about to faint. O'Brien, the Fenian, folded his arms and waited, but the beads of sweat upon his temples showed how sensitive he was to the tensity of the situation. Old Mangus, at the head of the table, pulled at his shaggy, unkempt beard, sucked at his pipe, and stared at Nomé. The dirty red fez on his head nodded slowly.

The light from the single window toward the west, casting each face into shadow, emphasized the characteristics of the group. O'Brien looked more like a bull than ever, Mangus more like a bear. Ospovat's mingled strength and weakness, affection and determination, his timidity ever lashed by his will, his effeminacy and his courage—all were plainly modeled upon his features. Irma Strieb's harsh, mannish countenance was hardened by envy in that revelation. Nomé alone, sitting with her back to the light, shone in suffused color, with a radiant charm that penetrated the half-light and made itself felt, though shrouded from distinct vision. Behind the table the room was already dusky, and showed only a vague disorder—the cheap couch, the lithographs on the walls, and a few scattered papers on the floor making spots of color against the dingy background of gray wall-paper and dull, ragged carpet. A little wooden Swiss clock upon the mantel ticked busily on.

Mangus was the first to break the silence. He shook his gray head and growled through his beard: "I'm sorry-it had to be a woman. This is a man's work!"

The color flashed into Nomé's cheek as she turned to him with new spirit. He put a hand on her arm, adding, "It's all right, Nomé; of course we can trust you, only—" Breaking off, he went to the sideboard, filled a glass with brandy, and brought it to her. Irma was still sullenly staring, and O'Brien's great mouth had fallen open like a slavering dog's. Little Ospovat's muscles were twitching.

Nomé put the glass away from her with a gesture of disdain. "Do you think—do you dare to think that I'm less able than a man to do the work?" she demanded proudly.

"Drink this!" Mangus commanded. "We'll talk afterward!"

"Give it to Ospovat—he needs it more than I do!" was her scornful reply.

The little Jew sprang to his feet. "Oh, Nomé, Nomé, I can't bear it! If it had only been I!" Then he sank into his chair again and dropped his head on his arms.

Nomé's eyes softened.

"One would think we had met to form a literary club!" Irma Strieb sneered. "What did you expect, Ospovat—to do what we have to do with cologne water? You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs! What are you whining at?"

"It's a serious business, just the same," O'Brien broke in. "It'll take a bit of doing, I'm thinking. You all know me, but I don't mind saying it makes me feel solemn."

"It's horrible!" cried Ospovat. "I wouldn't mind if I only had it to do myself, but to stand and look on——"

"There'll be enough to do for us all," Mangus growled. "We've only just begun. There'll be danger enough to go round, I promise you! We haven't enlisted for this thing alone, have we? It's the first stroke that tells, though, and it must be given hard and clean. I'm glad the day has come at last when we can stop talking and do things!" He took a packet of papers from his pocket and began to arrange them upon the table. Then he looked up. "You'd better all go, now," he added. "I've got something to say to Nomé."

The three arose awkwardly to take their leave, all self-conscious and embarrassed, their eyes fastened with a new curiosity upon the tall, dark, beautiful girl who had been their comrade for so long, now to go to instant peril, perhaps her death, alone.

The burly, sentimental Irishman went to her and wrung her hand in a strong grip, his eyes filling as he looked into hers. "Good-bye, Nomé, my girl," he said, choking. "I wish to God it had been me, but there's plenty left for us to do, as Mangus says. I've always been proud of you, Nomé—you'll do us credit, I'm sure. Come back to us safe—if you can!" He ran his big hand through his red hair and gazed at the wall, stupidly. Then, with a cough, he turned, went out the door, and stumbled down one flight of stairs, there to wait for Irma.

Irma Strieb's farewell was without sentiment. Her cold, gray-blue eyes did not moisten as she looked at Nomé for what would be, in all probability, the last time. The two women had always been at variance, and even physically they presented a contrast that Irma had always resented. Irma Strieb was a German of the most uncompromising plainness, unaccented by color or delicacy of feature. Her lack of comeliness was made up for, in a way, by an almost masculine strength, shown in her firm, heavy, wilful jaw, her yellow teeth and bushy yellow hair. The lines of her figure were all flattened where Nomé's were curved in full development, and her angular joints were ill disguised by a stiff, plain and unbecoming costume.

"You won, as usual, Nomé," she said. "Of course you'll become our heroine. Someone has got to get the glory, I suppose. But so long as the Cause needs to have drudgery done, I'll be here to do it. It doesn't matter. We must have a few good wheel-horses, even if they can't address meetings and electrify audiences."

"You have already done far more than I can ever do; you have been in the Movement since I was a child," said Nomé, steadily facing Irma's look. "Chance has given me this to do, and I shall do it as well as I can, but I wish I had done half as much as you have done, through all those first dark days, when you were almost alone!"

"Well, good-bye, then," said Irma coldly. "Come, Ospovat, let's go now!" She cast a contemptuous look at the little Russian. Then, as he shook his head sadly, she left the room deliberately, to meet O'Brien on the floor below.

Little Ospovat crept to Nomé's side like a hound and kissed her hand repeatedly, almost prostrated by his emotion and the intensity of his Slavonic temperament. Nomé put her hand on his curly head, then raised him, to kiss him upon the cheek. He was trembling violently, far more distraught than she. He left her without a word, his eyes on her to the last. The door closed softly behind him.

There was a hush in the cold, drearily furnished room, and the twilight had fallen, filling the place with shadows. Mangus still sat at the table, intent upon his papers. Nomé walked to the window to watch the orange light of the western sky flooding the jumble of London roofs and chimney-pots. She was calm now, but before Mangus spoke she must be calmer still. For the credit of her sex, for her own justification, she must not only carry this thing through successfully, but brilliantly, gallantly, as a man would do it.

She had been for several years in sympathy with the Movement, but had joined this most radical branch only a few months previously. Since entering the Circle she had carried all before her—all, that is, but Mangus, the brains and will of the conspiracy. Little Ospovat had been won at a glance, and O'Brien almost as easily; most of the others had been fascinated by the beautiful, spirited American girl who had so enlivened their meetings with a new charm and a new romance. Her enthusiasm had been picturesque and piquant. She had given her mind, her energy as well as her fortune to the Cause, but Mangus was too wise to trust anyone without a trial. She felt his distrust even when it was not expressed, and his apparent admiration of her beauty was scarcely less distasteful to her than his cynical comments upon her flamboyant emotions.

He looked up from his papers, at last, to see Nomé silhouetted against the dormer window, dark, gracile, ultra-feminine. As he watched her, she was never quite still. Every passing thought was written upon her face; her expression changed continually, urged by her conflicting emotions. Her hands worked convulsively, reflexing sudden moods of thought, her breath came suddenly or stopped as, in the intensity of her feeling, she went over the past and present and future. Woman as she was in intellect, she was but a child in emotional schooling—that was, perhaps, her final charm, the ingenuousness which was so marked as almost to seem like an affectation.

He went up to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder gently. She started, as if she had been summoned from the depths of consciousness, looked at him with a startled expression, then smiled graciously. She seemed younger than usual tonight. This last hour, when the theories of her life were to be unleashed into action, had not as yet touched her nerves.

"I didn't mean to doubt you, Nomé," he began. "We all know how true you are, none better than I, who have watched you from the beginning. You're prepared to die for the Cause, and you'll do your part as well as you can. It's only this that worries me—you're a woman, and I fear you've not yet killed that woman's heart of yours. You must kill that heart, Nomé, before you leave this room tonight. You may think you have given yourself to the Movement, body and soul; you may not have had a thought outside this matter since you first came to us, but you're a woman still—I could tell that by the way you kissed little Ospovat. A woman may often do bigger things than a man, but she often does littler things, too. You've done with the woman's battle of the heart against the brain. You've surrendered all right to a personal life. You belong to the Cause, without a will of your own, without desires or sympathies or emotions apart from the righting of a great wrong. As a nun gives herself to God when she takes the veil, so you gave yourself to Humanity when you took the oath. Your life may be wrecked this night, but the Cause, God bless it, will go on!"

She had kept her eyes on the sanguine glory of the sunset as he spoke, but she turned, now, her face bathed in the reddening light, her eyes on fire.

"Do you need to tell me this?" she cried. "Do you need to bolster up my courage—mine? Don't I know all this as well as you?" she exclaimed almost fiercely.

He met her gaze calmly. "How did you happen to join the Movement?" he inquired.

The color surged to her face, and she put her hand to her heart. "Because—because I became interested in the Cause—because I believed it was right and just and noble—why do you ask me? Why does anyone join, else? Why did you?"

"Have you ever had a love-affair, a serious one?" Mangus put the question as one who has the right to ask, and, in the conflict of wills, he won.

"Yes," she whispered, looking down.

"It was an unhappy affair?"

"Yes," she repeated.

"And for that reason, perhaps, you entered the Movement?"

"Yes," a third time.

Mangus brought his hand down on the table with a shock that startled the girl. "There you are again! It's always the way! Why can't a woman devote herself to a noble, righteous thing, because of its own compelling influence, because of its own human demand, instead of waiting till her heart is broken? I tell you, girl, that when a woman's heart is broken her will is broken, too! Otherwise she'd conquer this fetish worship of the emotions. A woman with a broken heart is never safe. It's well called a broken heart—she is weakened by it, in will and in mind. God! I've seen them—women studying the training for nurses in the hospitals, going in for philanthropy, sociology or religion, or joining the Movement—all on account of cardial fracture! Using the finest and noblest of human endeavors as a mere anesthetic! Isn't our Cause sublime enough to attract one whole heart, one happy life, from pure altruistic motives? How can I trust a woman if there is even one man in the world who can call himself her master?"

"You know I am resolved!" Nomé cried indignantly. "You know how I have burned at the thought of the injustice and the tyranny of all I see about me. You know how I hate the social system that forces this outrageous condition upon us—is not that enough?"

"Ah, that is not calmness, Nomé!" he replied. "You must forget all that now. It is true enough, but it is the talk for the platform, not for the thrower of a double-six. Keep to the scientific view. Our reform is inevitable—we do but make ready the day. This assassination must be differentiated from every sporadic attempt that has ever been made. It must be done with coolness and deliberation to have any effect. It must be one step in a chain of action, as mechanically performed as the stroke of the pen which drives the price of wheat up another point. You are not chosen to wreak poetic vengeance. Yours must not be the act of one burning with the wrongs of humanity, so much as the official act of a political plot, working logically to a positive end."

"I am in your hands," was Nomé's reply. "Have I not given my oath? You are dictator here. Command me!"

"Tell me something about your love-affair first."

Nomé spoke as to a confessor, rapidly and in a low voice. "He was George Camish, an Englishman, who expected before long to come into a title—I don't know what. I met him at home, in New York. I loved him, and thought he loved me. Then we quarreled, and since that I have never heard from him. That's all."

"But you cannot forget?" Mangus questioned coldly.

"No, I cannot forget." Nomé's words were scarcely audible.

"What if you were asked to kill him?"

"I should kill him."

There came a knock at the door. Mangus stalked to it in a rage. Little Ospovat, white-faced and trembling, a ridiculous figure in his large hat and ill-fitting overcoat, was upon the threshold.

"I thought you would be through, and Nomé would be alone," he whimpered. "I wanted to see her once more—for the last time!"

"Get out!" Mangus cried fiercely.

Ospovat retreated, with his bright eyes still searching the gloom.

"There's another of your little tuppenny love-affairs!" said Mangus. "How dares anyone bring his personal feelings into this room at such a time! Yet little Ospovat there, more a woman than you are, is more a man than some of us. I'd be surer of him than of O'Brien. There's stuff in that little Jew, for all his sentiment. I'll use him well, when his time comes!"

"He's a mere child," said Nomé, "but he's pure gold!"

"Gold!" muttered Mangus. "This is no esthetic Movement! What we want is steel, cold steel! Files and saws and knives and hammers are our tools. Phlebotomy, Nomé, phlebotomy is our game. Letting a little blood for the good of the race."

"Let us finish our business," pleaded Nomé, overcome by his taunts. "Whether I am worthy or not, this night will prove. If I still have a heart I have honor as well, and my mind is clear. I have given myself, my life, my soul to this Cause. I can strike, were it my mother who was to be the victim!"

"Listen, then," Mangus said, growing more gentle. "You're young. You've had your longings and your illusions; this is your chance for eternal peace. I envy you that. Let me give you what I can of my own strength, for you'll need all of your own, and more. One last word, then, before the final instructions.

"Our business tonight is to shock the whole world—to bring the land to its senses, if it has any—to compel men to gaze at a great evil, that it may, in time, be righted. By means of what men call a crime we shall force the recognition and discussion of what is, in the eyes of God, a far greater crime, the enslavement of a whole people. Ours is a war, and we employ the methods of warfare. Some believe that the general condition of mankind must needs improve slowly, laboriously, painfully, inch by inch, like the motion of a screw. We believe, you and I, that the only possible advance is by shock and conflict, by sudden leaps forward, like the wheel and ratchet, every step gained being a gain for all time. So civilization has always progressed by bloody wars, by fierce sacrifices of human life, by noble crimes. The man we have marked for death happens to be the one most in the way of liberty; yet it is not the man you are to kill, but the officer, the social system which he enforces. He may even be, according to his own standards and conventional moralities, good and just; but his life must be given that the people shall at last be free. His life—and perhaps yours!"

The dusk had grown closer, shrouding the chamber in gloom. Now Mangus arose and lighted the lamp. His manner changed. His speech was sharp and crisp as he spread the papers before her.

"See here. This is Westchester Square. You are to take your position here, where I have marked this cross, in the doorway of Number 11. Here is the Junior Arts Club, on the corner. At about one o'clock a man will come out of that club and walk across the square in your direction. You are to shoot that man. Wait till he is so near that you can't possibly miss him. Speak to him, if necessary, and fire at least three shots to make sure that the work is done."

"Who is he?" Nomé asked coolly.

"Lord Felvex, recently appointed Minister of Police. You will know him by a fur cap, a heavy frogged overcoat and a gold-handled stick. He wears a mustache. You can't mistake him, for we've made sure of his plans. He has agreed to meet someone in the vicinity at one o'clock to-night, and it's too near for him to need a cab."

Nomé took the pistol he handed her and watched him while he explained its action. He loaded it carefully. Next, he went over the plan for her escape. It was not till then that her attention wandered. She would never reach that waiting cab, she knew, and that part of the plot did not interest her. It seemed base to discuss her own safety. She was resolved to die.

"It is strange that you should have been chosen for this work," Mangus remarked after all the details had been arranged. "Before the lots were drawn in the Central Circle I felt sure that you would be the one. When the dice were thrown here tonight, I knew as well as if I had been told, that you would throw the highest. And yet, I would have preferred a man—Ospovat, or O'Brien. I could have used you to better advantage elsewhere, and I assure you that your work would have been equally perilous."

Nomé resented the repetition of his suspicion the more that it was coupled with the hint in regard to her beauty. He had tried before to enlist her in the crafty diplomacy of the Circle, where her appearance could be used to advantage, but her pride in her own determination had always denied him. She did not wish to be regarded as a woman, fit only for a woman's work; she longed passionately for an equal chance with the rest to do all that required will and nerve. Yet she had never quite convinced Mangus of her strength. It was not enough for her, now, that she would prove herself in two hours; her vanity demanded that she should bring him to her feet immediately. She could not bear not to be, even now, the heroine, equal to him in determination and coolness. She had already begun to act, to take her pose before the world. A way came to her mind to compel his admiration.

"Suppose we play a game of chess," she suggested. "I have plenty of time yet, and we have never played off our rubber. Let's see which is the better man."

The two had played often and were about equal in skill. To concentrate her mind, now, in such a crisis of her life, upon the complex strategy of the game was a tour de force that he knew how to admire. His own indomitable will could scarcely have gone further.

"Very well," he said, smiling in spite of himself at her ingenuous bid for admiration. "But I warn you, I'll not spare you. Take the white; I'm rather anxious to see your attack."

They were neither of them experts at chess, but had begun the study of it together and had succumbed together to its fascinations; both felt its excitement.

"It's a game of conspiracy," Mangus had often said, "and there's two kinds of conspirator. My kind is the Fabian policy—mobilize your force with deliberation, maneuvre with discretion, await your chance to pierce the enemy's defense. Yours is the other sort—strike hard and fast, take chances, force the attack always and finish in a whirl of glory or in the dust of defeat. It's the game I'm interested in; it's the winning you care for. But we need both sorts in the Cause. The supreme conspirator has a dash of both in him—discretion and recklessness, and, above all, a sane, swift recognition of opportunity." So he watch eagerly tonight for the significant move which should disclose her opening.

His eye lit, and he smiled with satisfaction as her moves developed the Muzio gambit, with its bold initial sacrifice of the knight. He accepted her piece and awaited her attack upon his king's flank. The opening must be pressed home rapidly and vigorously to gain with an inferior force, and one error in the player's analysis of the situation, one misstep in tactics often forfeits the game. Mangus opposed her craftily, but her play was sure.

Nomé was more beautiful than usual tonight. It was "her day," as women say, and the excitement had given her a splendid color. She had taken off her stock and opened the top of her gown at the neck to give herself freedom. Mangus smiled as she rolled up the right sleeve of her shirt waist; Nomé's arm was perfect, and her one conscious coquetry was in the use of her hands.

Mangus reached over the board and felt her hand. "You're cold!" he said. "But, good God, what a beautifully feminine creature you are, Nomé! It is a pity to throw you away on a man's work. Oh, I could use those black eyes and that black hair where they'd cut keener than daggers! What do you say if now we rearrange matters?"

"Mate in three moves!" she announced icily.

"You've beaten me, Nomé!" he said, rising after a look at the board. "Chess is the next to the greatest game in the world—war is greatest. We'll see what skill you have at that."

He took up the revolver and examined it thoughtfully.

"I wonder if you'll be able to handle this as well as you handled your rooks," he said. "The question now is, can you press this trigger at just the right time and point this barrel in just the right direction—that the ratchet may slip forward another notch?"

 

II

For five minutes after Mangus had gone Nomé sat gazing out into the dark of the west, over the city roofs and the dull, sullen, smoke-stained walls, pierced with lighted windows. The old man's cynical distrust of women had put her on her mettle, and, although she had no distrust of herself, she longed to have it over.

It was with a shock that, since throwing the winning dice, she had awakened to a sense of the enormous difference between the work of an agitator and that of an active conspirator. She had so long practiced with the catchwords of the movement and had gone so often over the old, well-known arguments, that she had long ago come to believe herself a creature of action. The sacrifice for which she had long been ready had seemed like an accomplished fact—she saw no difference between the willingness to die and death itself, so commonplace had her heroics become in her mind.

But now—it was so different! The crisis had come and she had been called upon to do actually what she had so often pictured herself as doing. Her time and place were set. It was for her to fall at this first ditch and let the Movement sweep on without her. The others would carry on the propaganda of the Cause, filling up the ranks where she had dropped. Ospovat, O'Brien, Irma Strieb, all would meet as usual in that room to plan new strokes, and, perhaps, go forth, one by one, to die like her. It seemed so hard that she could not do more, besides this night's work, for the Cause. She envied Mangus, not his safety, but his isolated supremacy in the Council, his prospect of seeing the Cause grow in power.

She was interrupted by a knock, and, before she had time to answer, little Ospovat crept into the room, apologetic and shrinking. He stumbled in a hole in the carpet and fell at full length. Nomé smiled to think that he was almost always either ridiculous or pathetic, and gave him a patronizing welcome. She was fond of him, but could never take him seriously; he was pure gold, as she had said, but he was, to her mind, but half a man—a child whose moods she was wont to indulge. But, after Mangus's insinuations, it heartened her to see someone who believed in her implicitly, as Ospovat always had done, always would do.

"I couldn't bear not to see you again, Nomé," he said. "And, oh, Nomé, I can't bear to have you die tonight! Nomé, Nomé, I have come to ask you something! Let me go in your place and do it! I am a man, and it does not matter about me—they can spare me so well—but you are so wonderful! You must not go, Nomé!"

He knelt before her, and she petted him like a sister. "It can't be, Ospovat," she said soothingly. "I have been chosen, and I must go. You know I have sworn not to disclose what I have to do tonight. How could I tell even you? I must do this thing. It is glorious, and I am happy to be able to give my life for the Cause!"

"Ah, but I am not happy!" he moaned, laying his head in her lap.

"Do you think I shall fail?" she inquired, knowing well what he would say, but longing for his trust.

"No! no!" he cried. "You will be a heroine! You cannot fail—you, who are so wonderful! But you are so beautiful, too!"

"Don't, Ospovat!" she exclaimed.

"And I love you—love you, Nomé!" he went on boldly.

"You must not say that!" she said, freeing herself from his hands. "What have you or I to do with love? Haven't you sworn that nothing shall come between you and the Cause? Haven't I? We have no right to any personal life, any personal taste, feeling or thought! You must not speak a word of this to me!"

"I will speak, Nomé—I must! It may be the last time I shall ever see you. I must tell you that I love you—that I have loved you ever since you came to us. You are a divine creature to me, so far above me that I want no return, no answer, even, only to let you know. And I cannot bear to have you die! You could never care for me, and so it is better, far better, that I should die, not you, who are so wonderful. If you should die, what would I do!"

"Poor boy, I am so sorry!" she said sadly. "But you must not talk so. It is decided, and it is wrong for you to distract me now, when I have so much to think of, when I need all my calmness to do what is to be done. You must throw yourself more into the Cause, and forget."

"Have you forgotten, Nomé?" he asked keenly.

"Forgotten what?"

"Forgotten your love, your heart, your sorrow."

"What do you know of that?"

"How do I know? Can I look at you and not see? Haven't I seen your eyes fill with tears and your hand go to your heart? You could not have that look in your face without having loved and suffered, as I suffer now. Look in my eyes, and you will see the same look there. I know—how well I know! I do not expect you to care for me—I never expected it. I am only little Ospovat, the Russian Jew! But I love you, all the same; and loving you, I have understood you. Is it not true, Nomé?"

"Yes," she said, "it is true."

"Then you, too, can understand how hard it is for me to let you go to-night!"

"You must let me go!" she cried. "Would you have me dishonored? You see for yourself how your words affect me, and you should not speak of this to me. I don't want to think of myself at all, tonight, least of all think of—what you have spoken of. I had to answer Mangus, and it nearly killed me! I can't bear it!"

"You will not let me go in your place?" he repeated.

"No, I cannot. I would not, if I could. I owe this to the Cause, and to myself, too, for I must be tried and proven, or what does all my work count for?"

"Let me go with you, then! Let me take the pistol and give myself up, while you escape. You could do so much for the Cause!"

"It is too late!"

He moaned, and threw himself into a seat by the table, dropping his head in his arms. She went up to him again, and touched him gently. "It is very sweet to have you love me so much, Ospovat," she said. "But I am past all that, and my heart is broken. I shall be glad to die."

"Is it so bad with you?" he said, looking up into her face. "He must have been wonderful, to inspire such a one as you to love him!"

"Indeed he was wonderful—to me."

"And he left you? How could anyone ever leave you!"

"We quarreled. Then he left. Sometimes I have thought that he quarreled on purpose, so that he might go without hurting me so much."

"Can't I do something for you, Nomé, before you go out into danger? I might take a message to him from you."

"No, that's useless. When he hears how I have died that will be message enough for him. He will know."

"It is well; I would kill him if I saw him."

"That would be a poor way to serve me," Nomé said, smiling sadly.

The little Swiss clock on the mantel struck midnight. The two listened, Ospovat trembling, till it had finished. Then Nomé looked at him meaningly. He rose and gazed at her fixedly, then knelt and kissed her hand.

"Farewell, Nomé!" he said quickly.

After he had gone she sat for some time listlessly, then arose with a brisk resolve. She put on her hat and coat and placed the revolver carefully inside her muff. Finally, turning out the light, she went downstairs and opened the front door on Fitzroy street. A cab had just passed. As it turned the corner into Grafton street, she walked slowly down the steps and across the pavement to the curb. Soon after the cab reappeared from the opposite direction and halted where she stood. Opening the door, without speaking to the driver, Nomé stepped in.

As the vehicle passed into Charlotte street, a little man, slinking in the shadow, ran out and swung himself on the rear of the cab. The driver did not notice.

III

It was nearly one o'clock when Nomé, having left the cab some blocks away and walked alone to the appointed spot, reached the shelter of the doorway where she was to await the Minister of Police.

The public-houses had closed, turning the last wayfarers upon the night. The streets were deserted now, unvisited except by the solitary policeman who proceeded silently down the rows of sleeping houses, illuminating the doors with his dark-lantern. From her post in the shadow no one was visible. Occasionally she heard the echoing, padded beat of horses' hoofs and the distant jangle of cab bells. and then silence fell upon the place. The electric lamp in the little triangular square flooded the vicinity with light, the sizzling arcs casting an uncertain shadow of the standards, as the spark spluttered and burned violet again. The doorway where she stood was hid in darkness. Opposite her was the clubhouse, the cut-glass in its front doors sparkling with refracted rays.

A belated serving-maid passed, on the other side of the street, with her "follower." At the lower door of her house there was a colloquy in whispers. The man whistled, and, after a wait, an upper window was opened. A woman threw down a key, laughing aloud. The maid entered and her escort withdrew. The square was still again.

As Nomé waited there, revolver in hand, her mind was full of the advice Mangus had given her. His phrase—the ratchet and the screw—came back to her like a watchword. But the intellectual stigma he had put upon her sex still aroused her scornful resentment. She would prove its injustice. She thought of women whose example might inspire her—and she thought, too, of some whose hearts had triumphed over their heads, in the supreme trial. She recalled one such, in Germany, who had relinquished her purpose at the sound of a crying babe. What had become of her? What had life to offer for one so recreant to the trust of her one greatest moment?

But had Nomé herself killed her heart as Mangus had doubted? Indeed, had it not been killed for her when George Camish left her? How else could she have gone into the movement—how could she have taken the oath, if her heart had not been withered three years ago?

Quick, now! The door of the club-house opened and two men appeared. No, it was not the minister. . . .

She must not allow her mind to wander. This was no time for subjective analysis, no time for her to doubt herself. The work tonight was the climax of her life. Nothing else mattered, for she would prove herself. In another hour all would be answered.

Suddenly she noticed two men loitering on the opposite side of the street. She watched them curiously, nervously, thinking at first that they might be members of the Circle, ready to assist her escape. But all the prominent members of the Movement were already known to the police, and their appearance at this time would not only be dangerous to themselves but would endanger the success of the conspiracy. Her second thought was that the plot had become known, and that these men were detectives prepared to thwart her attack. The next instant, however, their true character was revealed in a series of rapid events.

Crossing the street together, they stationed themselves so near her that she could almost hear their whispered words. Then there was a subdued exclamation of attention as, across the square, the door of the clubhouse opened and a man appeared. Before her eyes had recognized the fur cap, the mustache and the frogged overcoat, her heart's beating and the choking in her throat had told her that it was the minister. She heard him call "Good night!" and the door was slammed. He walked rapidly across the square toward her. Nomé held her pistol ready, her finger trembling upon the trigger.

The men she had been watching were now between her and the approaching victim as he came on briskly, swinging his stick. Then, to her surprise and horror, the two, who had been pretending to light a cigarette one from the other, whirled upon Lord Felvex with violence. The attack was so rapid and so fierce that he was caught unprepared, and was quite at their mercy. He did not even cry out for help. He was struck down almost immediately, and then attacked with a ferocity so cruel that Nomé's blood boiled. She saw blow after blow rained upon him, then all thought of her own purpose was swept away in an overmastering desire to save him from this deadly peril. In another instant he would have been beaten into insensibility.

She ran out with her revolver drawn, and, leveling deliberately at one of the footpads, fired. He fell in his tracks, and she turned instantly to the other. Lord Felvex had rolled over and was attempting to rise; Nomé caught one glance at his bleeding face. That sight so increased her excitement that her second shot went wild. In a flash the robber was upon her and felled her violently to the ground with a blow upon the chest. She fell upon her arm and head, and swooned.

When she came to herself little Ospovat was kneeling beside her, whispering wildly into her ear. There was a tumult in the square—a cordon of police was driving a gathering crowd back out of the way—orders were being cried out—men were running up from every direction. Across the street lighted windows were thrown up, and men and women were gazing down upon the trouble. What had happened? At first she was too faint and ill to remember. . . .

Had the minister been killed? Had the ratchet slipped up another notch? Was she now the heroine of the Cause? Then her memory came back in a flood of shame at her failure—and came with a recurrence of the excitement she had felt when she saw Lord Felvex's face. Her head was resting upon an overcoat, she was bleeding, her left arm was numb, her chest filled with a stinging ache when she breathed, but she felt no cold, no pain worth troubling her—only the wretchedness of a wasted opportunity, a sense of failure, and, through it all, a wonder and a puzzled horror at the minister, at Lord Felvex whom she knew now so well! She wished that she had died.

"You couldn't help it, dear Nomé!" Ospovat was saying under his breath. "Of course there was no other way! I watched you from the corner, and I know you were ready. I shall tell them at the Circle—I shall say that you would have done it. Those damned robbers spoiled everything—but you shall have another chance! I shall help you next time! I shall give my life with yours, Nomé."

He was wiping the blood from her face as he whispered, kissing her brow, chafing her wrists, abandoned to grief at the sight of her condition. Nomé had not strength enough to speak, scarcely enough to think upon the complication of her woes. She had failed, failed, failed! How Mangus would sneer at her! And Lord Felvex—she was too bewildered to follow out that thought.

Ospovat was torn from her side as two policemen brought up a surgeon from a house across the street. Nomé saw, languidly, as in a dream, that he had his nightshirt still on under his coat, and he wore no stockings. Then a voice—a voice that she knew so well!—thrilled her through the babel of noises.

"Never mind me! Let me alone, damn you! I can stand all right. Get a carriage and take that girl to my house. Send for Sir Thomas Burroughs immediately—don't wait for an ambulance! By Jove! that girl is a brick, whoever she is. She's to be taken direct to my house!"

IV

For three weeks Nomé was too ill to realize her position at the Felvex house; she saw no one but her physician and nurses. Intervals of fever prevented her from noticing the attentions by which she was favored, and in these times her mind reverted continually to the stress of thought which had immediately followed her adventure.

As soon as she began to recover her health and strength, however, she wondered at the consideration which she received. She was in a beautifully furnished room with alternate day and night nurses to wait upon her, often and most cordially visited by her doctor, the celebrated Sir Thomas Burroughs, who treated her with a cheerful and interested kindness that charmed her. The table by her bed was kept constantly supplied with fresh flowers. Everything that she could wish for, or that could be anticipated for her, was done, with the exception that she received no information as to what had happened during the interval of her illness. There was something significant in the deference with which she was treated, and she could not quite understand it. The first message she received was from Lady Felvex, inquiring as to her health, and expressing a wish to call upon her. Then, little by little, she learned from her nurse how matters stood.

She had become a popular heroine. She was shown papers with accounts of the episode at Westchester Square, extolling her courage in defending the minister. His social and official prominence had combined with her own beauty to make the affair notorious. The illustrated weeklies contained pictures of the incident, with photographs of Lord Felvex. Here she read his biography, and some of the events in his past explained the reason for his behavior when she had known him in New York.

There, having refused to make use of his courtesy title of "Honorable" during his visit to the United States, he had been known by his family name of Camish. He had been engaged to the present Lady Felvex for four years, not having married her until he had come into his uncle's title. She understood, now, why he had invented their one-sided quarrel, why he had left her, why he had never spoken to her as she had hoped to have him speak. She had loved him, and no doubt he had become more and more fond of her. When he saw how matters were tending he had taken the most considerate way of parting with her. She had no reproaches for him; it was his right, for they had never come to any definite understanding. She had loved him and had gone more than halfway in the affair. There had been a swift, keen friendship. That was all, so far as he was concerned, though she had taken it much more seriously. It was all simple enough, common enough; it was one of a thousand similar cases, yet her heart had broken.

No one, at first, knew who she was, for Lord Felvex had not had time to recognize her during the fracas that night, and she had few friends in London outside the Circle. This mystery had increased the picturesqueness of her situation and had stimulated the curiosity of the public. She began to receive hundreds of letters of congratulation. Flowers, fruits, delicacies and presents of all description were showered upon her by unknown admirers of her gallantry. It was apparent that she was no common woman of the streets, and it was surmised that she was an American, although the reason for her being in that vicinity, alone and armed, caused much inquisitive comment.

The iron entered Nomé's soul at the first realization of her anomalous situation. To have failed in her appointed purpose was agony enough for her proud spirit, but to receive this tribute of praise for an act which, to her, represented only her weakness, was an exquisite anguish.

With all the adulation which she had begun to receive, and which, as she became convalescent, she would receive in fuller measure, she must hold her tongue and play the hypocrite, humiliated by the cruel falsity and injustice of her part. She must bide her time; there were too many interests at stake for her to protest at her hostess's bounty. Not only the safety of her friends but the danger to the Cause itself kept her silent, and behind this was the chance for her own redemption—if she ever had the courage to redeem herself from this failure.

So she received the flattery and favors which were for her the bitterest mockery. She had been human enough to anticipate the notoriety that would become hers—the vilification, the persecution, the crown of thorns—but she would have had the glory, too, of having struck for Humanity, not this cheap romance of an accidental rescue. Harder to bear than this was the thought of how the Circle would regard her action. The better part, including Mangus, perhaps, might admit that she did rightly, for the sordid crime of the footpads, dignified by no noble motive, unauthorized by any revolutionary tribunal, could surely mean nothing to the propaganda of the Cause.

Yet she knew that one faction at least—that to which O'Brien, the Fenian, belonged—would never forgive her. They held a personal quarrel with the minister who had stood in their way, and had made many of the Circle suffer. O'Brien himself had been warmly fond of her, but she knew his hot Irish blood; he was capable of turning on her the instant their wills diverged.

She could never show herself in the Circle until she had reinstated herself, in her own opinion and theirs, as a heroine. She had gone to her errand of death with confidence and determination and had failed; the next time, with the knowledge of her weakness of will, with the knowledge, too, of what Lord Felvex was to her, it would be intolerably harder. In the drama, in all the stories she had ever read, love had always conquered. Must it always be so? Could she not prove that there was something higher than love, something above duty, even—the divine principle of sacrifice?

So she went over it again and again, torturing herself with misgivings. The tumult in her soul kept her weak, and its symptoms of distress for awhile baffled her physician. But she was young and hardy, and day by day her strength slowly returned. There came a time, at last, when she was informed that Lady Felvex was to be admitted.

Nomé's hostess was a quiet, modest woman of thirty, with a plumpness that was still more girlish than matronly and a calmness that instantly inspired confidence. Her hair was dark and straight, simply arranged, without pretense to style; her eyes were clear, deep blue and steady. Her level brows and wide, well-cut mouth betokened great magnanimity and a peace of mind that ill accorded with a certain awkwardness and carelessness in her carriage. She seemed serene in spirit and sure in thought, but self-conscious as to her physical appearance. The cordial friendliness of her manner seemed to be kept in check lest it should become too frank and candid.

She came directly to the girl, kissed her on the forehead, then sat down and took her hand.

"What can I say to you?" she said. "You who saved my husband's life! It was wonderful of you; you don't know how I admire you. It has been a long time to wait to see you, and there was so little I could do! If there is anything you will tell me, won't you?" She paused to run her fingers through Nomé's dark, rippling hair.

"You have been too kind—you have done too much already," the girl replied. "It is very strange to find myself here in your house. It was very good of you and Lord Felvex, but I am sure it was quite unnecessary. I hope I shall not trouble you long."

"You must not talk that way, Miss Destin," Lady Felvex implored. "Nothing we may do can begin to express the friendliness we feel. Besides, my husband has told me that you and he are old friends. It could not have turned out more fortunately for us, for I am so glad to see you, of whom I have heard so much. Let us forget what you have done, if you prefer it, and stay with us only as a most welcome visitor. We succeeded in finding your address, and I have already sent for your things. If there is anything else that you need I trust you will let me know. Aren't there any messages I can have sent for you—any friends that you would like to see?"

"Nothing, thank you," was the reply. "I know very few people in London, though if I think of anything I'll tell you; but I cannot accept your hospitality, Lady Felvex, any longer than is absolutely necessary. You have been exceedingly considerate of my feelings and I am not ungrateful, but it is very important for me to leave as soon as possible. I have a great deal to do and little time in which to do it."

"I don't intend to embarrass you in any way," said Lady Felvex, rising. "You must feel at perfect liberty to do whatever you choose; but be sure of your welcome in any event. And I don't intend to tire you any longer. There are many of my friends who are most anxious to see you. Miss Destin—really, you have become quite famous. As soon as you are feeling stronger perhaps they may amuse you. But remember that you are to feel perfectly free while you are in my house."

She had scarcely left before a box of flowers was brought to the door of the room. The package was opened by the nurse, who placed a sheaf of red roses in her patient's hands. Nomé had a child's fondness for flowers, and pressed the wet, odorous blossoms to her lips and face with pleasure. Separating the stems she noticed a small sealed envelope attached to the ribbon which bound them, and opened it, with a mild curiosity to know the name of the donor. There was a card inclosed, on which was written in Mangus's fine, precise hand the words:

Remain and await orders.

This message came like a sudden blow, making her realize afresh the critical position in which she was placed. She nerved herself again, to be ready when her next opportunity came; for Mangus evidently still trusted her. Blotting out her sense of the hypocrisy of her position as the guest of Lady Felvex, eclipsing even the rising excitement at the thought of again meeting her lover, the inspiring feeling that she was to be a heroine of the Cause bathed her in new resolve. She pledged herself again to the Movement and all the bitter martyrdom with which it must try her.

V

Soon after the visit of Lady Felvex the minister himself had asked for permission to see his guest. Nomé had been awaiting and dreading this meeting for days. The doctor had noticed her excitement when the call was mentioned, and though he could not interpret Nomé's perturbation, it was evident to his trained eye that something more than ordinary embarrassment affected her. The meeting was postponed, therefore, until he was surer of his patient.

But it could not long be delayed. Nomé's vigorous youth was rapidly demonstrating its power, the color had come into her cheeks and the freshness of her beauty was restored. The time soon came when in courtesy she could not refuse to see her host.

The situation, besides being false, was complicated by so many considerations that she had lost herself in the subtleties of it. Had he been merely a former acknowledged lover it would have been bad enough, but she had to remember all that his leaving her must mean. She must endure his pity for her as one who had fallen in love with him; one with whom he had been forced to break by means of an artifice of transparent chivalry. It took all the inspiration she could derive from the Cause, to enable her to forget the personal side of the coming event. Besides all this, there was a fluttering apprehension of alarm in her breast—a fear that these three years had not cooled her sufficiently for her to withstand the sway he had always had over her.

She was sitting in her reclining-chair when he entered, her black hair plaited and loosely drawn about her head, emphasizing her youthful appearance, despite the sadness that had come into her dark eyes. Out of the long, flowing sleeves of her gown, her little round arm emerged, and her slender hands plucked nervously at a bouquet of red roses in her lap. All else was lost in billows of cream-colored crêpe and cascades of old lace.

The color surged to her cheeks as she caught her first glance at him—and she blushed again to feel that guilty, revealing wave of emotion. The uneasy slumber in her eyes had fled, and they leaped at him with almost an embrace in their eagerness. In that first glance she recognized all the old familiar charms, and noted as sharply every little change that three years had brought to his former distinction of form and bearing. A few new wrinkles about the eyes and a slight whitening of the hair about his temples had added much to the impression of strength and dignity he carried. What had been before but frankness and directness of manner was now tempered to power and resolve. But otherwise, he was the same keen, shrewd, liberal-minded man, still preserving much of his straightforward eagerness and freshness.

All this Nomé saw in one longing look; then her eyes fell. She made herself smile, and raised her glance to him again. There was so much she must not say to him that she dreaded to speak.

Lord Felvex said nothing until he had walked over to her chair and taken her hand; then, "Nomé, is it really you?" he almost whispered.

"No," she replied steadily, "not the Nomé you once knew, at least!"

"Who, then?" he asked, surprised at her tone. "Surely my friend—you have proved that most wonderfully!"

"I have proved nothing—yet," she answered. "It was an accident." She chose her words carefully, hoping that some time he would remember them, and understand.

"It was a most fortunate accident for me, then," he went on. "Nomé, of course I can't thank you for such an action as yours; it would be absurd, but I must say something. And I thank God that it was you who did it! But it's all so strange and unreal! I can't understand it. The coincidence was marvelous! To think that you, you, you, Nomé, happened to be at that particular place, at that particular moment, and alone—and armed, too!"

He gave her this chance for explanation, without appearing to question her.

She perceived his unasked query, and could do nothing better than ignore it. So far as it was possible, in the tangled web that was woven about her, she would be honest with him. She could at least be silent, if that were possible; though, if the Cause demanded it, she must lie with all her might.

"It was a strange coincidence, wasn't it?" she said, with a smile that forbade his going on.

There were depths and shallows for her in any direction the conversation might turn, but most of all she feared to run aground on the discussion of their past acquaintance. Her pride forbade that, and she bent her wits to steer him away from any reference to it.

"You have been very good to me, Lord Felvex," she began. "It is I who should thank you for what you have done for me!"

He laughed outright. "By Jove, that is carrying politeness rather far, isn't it? If I had had the least idea you were in London, you would have been here visiting my wife long ago! Is your sister Alixe here?"

"No; she is still in New York."

"And your mother?" He looked puzzled.

"My mother also. I am here alone. I am studying—" She could, at the moment, think of no other subterfuge. But, with the natural frankness of her manner, the lameness of her explanation was patent, and Lord Felvex courteously forbore to inquire further.

"Well, at all events, now you are here, here you must stay. You had better make up your mind to that! Lady Felvex will be delighted. She knows we are old friends," he added tentatively. "I know what pleasure she will have in knowing you."

"Lady Felvex is charming! We shall most certainly be friends. She has already asked me to be her guest, but I am afraid it will not be possible—at least, not for long. I have much to do."

"You are not leaving London soon, I hope?"

"I can't say. But I must leave before long."

"To travel, I suppose?"

"Yes—to travel." She smiled as she thought what the phrase meant to her.

"Well, it's good to see you again, Nomé," he said, honestly trying for the point she seemed bound to evade. "Whether you are the same or not, I shall soon find out. There's such a lot I want to talk to you about."

Nomé winced, and made another attempt to deflect him. "Yes, we have much to talk over, haven't we? We shall have to get acquainted all over again, really. I have changed much more than I may show on the surface. There will be plenty of time to find all that out."

He did not see her warning. His frankness had been chafing under the strain her coolness put upon him, and now he broke through the ice.

"Nomé! we must be friends!" he exclaimed. "Surely we can be friends again, better friends than we ever were before. I have so much to explain—there were good reasons for what I did! I can't bear to have you here, at last, and not have you know why I acted so——"

She raised her hand to stop him. "You may be a good Minister of Police, Lord Felvex," she said calmly, "but you never had too much tact—so I beg of you to spare me. I know what you are going to say."

"You can't know!" he insisted. "I was in duty bound——"

"And now?" she inquired, raising her brows.

"It is different now. We can begin again, and I shall at least not act under false pretenses."

Nomé winced at the phrase. "You are dangerously near a forbidden topic, Lord Felvex," she said.

"I want to be honest with you, that's all. I know the result well enough. You are my guest, and you cannot leave, but isn't it better to be honest than to pretend?"

"Perhaps it is; I don't know. Sometimes we haven't the power of choice."

"I have found you again so wonderfully, Nomé! I could bear to have you think the worst of me while you were out of my world. There was nothing else to do. But now, when we meet face to face, here, now—it all comes back so swiftly and keenly—you are you, and I am I, and we must go together——"

Nomé flung herself out of her chair and faced him. She had done her best to stay him, but now it was too late to avoid the issue. "Must I go over it all again?" she cried, stretching out her arms to him. "Must you make me suffer again what I have suffered and conquered? My God! How I have fought you in spirit—how I have slain you in my breast—and here you appear as a ghost to haunt me! And I killed myself, at the same time with you—or thought I did. No, no, no, it is too late! You shall not harass me! See—I am quivering, but it is not for you! It is too late!"

"Is there another, Nomé?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes—another—higher, nobler, greater love than you could ever inspire!"

"Then it is too late indeed!"

"Why did it have to be you? Why was I brought to this house? Why, of all places! Why do you torment me—you who should protect me, as your guest?"

"I am sorry," he answered. "But I could not think of you as changing, for I have not changed. I thought that we might at least be friends, and in all honor!"

"It is too late—I cannot!" Her face was one capable of expressing tragedy, and now it was drawn and intense with emotion. But it had not lost its dark, passionate beauty.

"Listen, Lord Felvex," she said, and her breath came fast with her excitement. "You have opened the door and let doubt into my soul. Now I am again on trial—how shall I prove myself? I have clung to that old love of you through two long years of pain, holding it to my breast as the one greatest thing of my life. All I sacrificed for it had made it more, dear to me. Then, my doubts of you at last killed it. Surely it died! Then came another, a greater emotion even than that. I could not have embraced it had not that old love died. But I did embrace it; it has grown, it has filled my life. It has given me peace, if not happiness. And now—comes doubt. If I believe you, must I return to that old love to prove myself true? Or must I hold to this other, to prove myself true? Whatever happens, shall I not prove myself incapable of any real, lasting emotion? So far, I have believed in myself. I was true to you until you died, and I have been true to this new feeling as well. Now I must be false to one or the other; which shall I choose? Oh, I want not to believe you—that would be the easier way! I cannot serve both, and I cannot abandon both. I will not believe you! You have taken advantage of your position, and of my position here. If I could only leave this house!"

"Nomé," he said, "what can I do? Let it be all over between us, if that will help you. I shall not speak of it again."

"Oh, it's too late now!" she moaned. "Let us, at least, or at most, be friends, then."

"That can't be, mustn't be. I have no right even to your friendship."

"I don't see why not," he persisted.

"It is too dangerous."

She knew well enough how he would interpret this, but she was past caring now. She made a savage attempt to keep back her tears. Lord Felvex had walked away and stood by the window. There was a silence of some moments before he returned to her.

"I can't unsay what I said, Nomé," he began, "but I am sorry."

"Spare me your pity," she said bitterly.

"I am sorry for myself. You should be happy. It is ended now, forever. I have made the terrible mistake of being honest—the mistake men usually make. But that should not hurt you permanently. You have something better than I could offer you. Take it freely. Don't be afraid to be happy. Don't be a slave to your past emotions."

"If I could only leave! I will leave as soon as possible!" she exclaimed.

"You cannot leave yet. Let Lady Felvex be your friend, instead of me."

"I am a hypocrite in her house. I can't bear that."

"You need no excuses. You saved my life. That is enough."

"Let me think. I had thought that I had finished with thinking, but I must begin again. So I thought I had finished with feeling, and I felt again. Never mind. Some time, Lord Felvex, you may know what I have suffered. Should that time come, you may forgive me."

He turned the talk to impersonal matters and, after awhile, her strain was relieved. Despite his honest blundering he had a delicacy of perception that reassured her; it was one of the old, familiar graces of manner that made her heart beat faster. When he left, she smiled a farewell.

The dull ache to which she had become accustomed, however, had now increased to an active pain. Had it not been for the Cause, she would willingly have cast off her pride and shown him how much she cared. She knew she was still capable of that, and would glory in it; but her life was not hers to live now. Not only must she know no hopes, but no despairs.

Her one desire was that the word should come quickly, and that she might settle everything by one swift stroke. She would give it mechanically, and it would bring her peace.

That night she went down to dinner for the first time. As she passed through the hall on the arm of Lord Felvex a parlormaid passed her and opened the doors of the dining-room for them. There was something familiar in her movements which troubled Nomé for a moment. When she took her seat the maid had entered, and stood at the butler's table. The next moment she turned and, in the cap and apron of the servant, Nomé recognized Irma Strieb. It was all she could do to conceal her surprise, and her mind ran immediately to account for the girl's presence. First, the terrible thought came to her that Irma had been sent to complete the work which she, Nomé, had failed in, and was there awaiting an immediate f chance to kill the minister. Next, Nomé feared that she herself was distrusted and watched. That Irma had some definite mission was not to be doubted. Hard as it was to battle with these emotions, Nomé composed herself and awaited developments. She could scarcely trust herself to speak, and at first answered at random, overpoweringly conscious of Irma's presence. Her instinctive dislike of the girl was intensified by the espionage which she herself, as well as the minister, was under, making her feel more in league with him than with Irma.

The talk ran on, and Nomé took advantage of her illness to hazard but few remarks, watching the spy surreptitiously. Not a sign of recognition escaped Irma Strieb's eyes, however, and the drama played itself out.

Just before the dinner was over it occurred to Nomé, in a flash of intuition, that it was her duty to give Irma some chance of communication. Possibly she was, after all, only a messenger and had something important to communicate from Mangus. The suggestion relieved her mind enormously, and from that moment her wits rallied. At a chance when Irma was on her side of the table, Nomé caught her eye and dropped her serviette. Irma stooped to pick it up and, rising, found time to place a folded slip of paper in Nomé's hand. Nomé concealed it in the folds of her gown. Her spirits rose, for this byplay had reinstated her as one with a definite mission, a weapon of the Cause. She began to act again; all her finesse and art were brought out in a brilliant flow of conversation. She played her part as well for Irma Strieb as for Lord and Lady Felvex, compelling, as usual, the admiration of her listeners.

As soon as she could be alone in her room she tore open the note. She had not allowed herself to speculate upon its contents before, for she had expended all her emotional energy upon the endeavor to seem self-possessed. But now her heart beat fast with a sudden fear lest the summons had come and she must strike immediately. She had been lulled into a sense of security—a feeling that, in spite of her inaction, she was still furthering the work of the Cause. Now she was brought up again suddenly with the prospect of an immediate call to arms, and she had an instinctive sense of relief when she read the following words:

Do not act until you have seen Madame Spiritan.

VI

Nomé improved rapidly in strength. When she was well enough to take the air she drove out in Lady Felvex's carriage. The two ladies were at times accompanied by Lord Felvex, and Nomé began to perceive, for the first time, evidences of the wide repute she had gained. Their landau was repeatedly stopped that the minister might receive the greetings of congratulatory friends; and everyone presented to Nomé had a look of piquant interest and an expression of approbation more or less flattering for the girl. She could not help noticing that the carriage was often pointed out by the strollers in the Park, and the curiosity displayed left her no doubt that she had become, in her way, a person of note. This public interest was as hard to bear as the private evidences of gratitude which her hostess showered upon her; for it brought into sharp relief the reverse of the medal—the picture of herself as an assassin pursued by the public opprobrium.

She was becoming accustomed and apathetic to her false position, however, biding the suspense, when one day she was stung to the quick by the sight of O'Brien. He was sitting on a bench by the drive, and, as the carriage swept by, their eyes met. He stared at her without apparent recognition. A wave of color surged to Nomé's cheeks, for, on the instant, she realized what the sight of her, comfortably ensconced in the cushions of Lord Felvex's carriage, would mean to such an excitable member of the Circle.

It did not matter what the crowd thought of her. It did not so much matter even what Lord Felvex himself thought of her, for these outsiders would never understand her motives, and could never credit her with the glory of a sublime ideal. But to be misjudged and suspected by one of her own comrades in the Cause was galling to her pride. And she knew that O'Brien would suspect her. His fierce class-hatred and hot, radical prejudices would resent the sight of Nomé playing the part of an aristocrat. He would suspect her of being seduced by the life she was now leading; he would doubt of her being able to end it with the necessary tragic climax. She had been used before to wealth and social honors. He would scarcely trust her, surrounded by such temptations, not to return to her old place in the world, the place to which she was born. The vision of his face followed her, accusing and malevolent, during the rest of the day.

With the freedom of the house as her privilege, she had made familiar use of the library, which was well and wisely stocked. It was little used, and there Nomé often found sanctuary from the distracting moods of her suspense. There were two rooms completely filled with books, the smaller chamber being shut off from the larger by a curtained doorway.

She went downstairs one afternoon, intending to return a volume which she had borrowed, and was just about to pass between the portières when, pushing aside the folds, she saw that the small room was occupied. Lord Felvex was there with a lady whom Nomé had never seen before, and the two were in the midst of an animated conversation.

Nomé took her in, estimated and appraised her at the first glance. She was a scintillating blonde with a high-rolling pompadour, eyes of Irish blue, deeply cleft cheeks and dazzling teeth set in a large open mouth. She was a finished product of fashionable society. All that was possible for coiffeur, masseuse and manicure, for tailor, milliner and jeweler, to do had been done. Every natural excellence had been so accentuated, and every defect so improved or concealed, that, without any pretensions to good looks, she gave an effect of definite beauty. Her costume was a miracle of violet chiffon; her hat was the extreme of picturesque millinery. She was smoking a cigarette whose perfume, mingled with the odor of violets, came to Nomé to accentuate the impression this exotic mondaine produced upon the young girl's mind. No strange and terrible orchid could have attracted her with stronger feelings of surprise and alarm. Nomé dropped the curtain hurriedly, yet stood fascinated by the scraps of talk which came to her.

"But you really are good-looking, George," the lady was saying. "Most Englishmen's faces are made of either wax or rubber, but yours is marble. You've got a lovely, firm chin, with that delicious little cleft that looks as if God had put His thumb there the last thing and said, 'There! now you're finished!' And you've got psychic hands, too—that's why I'm so afraid of you! Look at mine—I wish I could whittle off my fingers till they were pointed like yours! Oh, you're a charmer, George, you needn't pretend not to be. But oh, George. I wish I could get that 'gelebt und geliebt' look round the eyes! However did you do it? It must have taken two or three wonderful women to put that on, now!"

Lord Felvex's frank laughter rang through the little room. "It's no use, Belle," he said. "This won't work. What's the little game, anyway?"

"Shame!" she replied airily. "I don't flatter myself. Oh, you're impregnable, I know that well enough. I'm not pursuing you. But I have the fatal art of understanding you, that's all. I can feel vibrations—I'm sensitive. You have power—I have only sympathy. And I'm emancipated enough to admire you frankly. I wish I could help you. You're so different to most men. Poor Henri was so much of a type that I felt as if I were marrying a thousand men at a whack when I got him."

"Do you know, Belle," Lord Felvex said, "sometimes I suspect you of being clever?"

"Oh, spare me!" she cried mockingly. "That only means that I'm not good to look at! I'd give a brain for a good pair of eyes, any time. Just because you have both, you shouldn't take advantage!"

Nomé waited to hear no more, and, her mind whirling with this revelation of Lord Felvex's character, she made her way to her room.

A week passed, bringing no further word from Mangus. Nomé caught occasional glimpses of Irma Strieb, and these convinced her that sinister preparations were being made, without giving any clue as to the new part that she herself was to play. She longed to have the suspense over and to know just what was expected of her.

One day Lady Felvex came to her room and made the first positive request.

"I hope," she said, "you will be willing to dine with us tonight, Miss Destin, for we are expecting several persons whom I would like to have you meet. The Russian military attaché will be here, and a Colonel Grennyngs—he was a field comrade of Lord Felvex during the war. Then there is a charming Irishwoman who is most anxious to meet you. She is Madame Spiritan; we all consider her very clever and amusing."

Nomé was alertly attentive in an instant. "I shall be charmed; do tell me about the lady," she said.

"Really, I have known her a very short time, after all," said Lady Felvex. "She was sent to us with the best possible credentials by a friend of my husband in the French War Office. She is very attractive, and is a great favorite here—especially among the men. I might say, in fact, that she is essentially a man's woman."

"Her husband comes with her?" Nomé inquired.

"She is a widow," was the reply. "One can tell that as soon as she enters the room. She is rather good-looking and highly accomplished—most decidedly finished."

Something in Lady Felvex's tone made Nomé look at her curiously. The glance was caught and returned. Lady Felvex took the girl's hand.

"I hope you will not think me unfair," she said frankly, "but I must tell you that I don't like Madame Spiritan, myself. I distrust her instinctively, and yet I have no real reason for my feeling, and know nothing whatever to her discredit. It is partly on this account that I wish to be especially nice to her, and so I have asked you to help me. I don't wish to be prejudiced by my feelings in any way, and to avoid that I'm exerting myself to make her welcome in my house."

When Lady Felvex left Nomé gave herself over to speculation. She was to meet Madame Spiritan that evening, and would undoubtedly receive, at last, definite orders. There seemed to be no end to the complications of her position. A guest of Lady Felvex, wearing her hostess's own gowns, eating her bread and salt, she must hold herself ready to ally herself with, and to obey, one who was confessedly persona non grata in the household.

At seven o'clock she went down to the reception-room in some trepidation. Colonel Grennyngs had already arrived and was presented to her through a monocle. He was the typical Briton of the stage, complete even to the long drooping mustache and blond hair, a V.C. who would bridle and shy like a nervous colt if the subject of his decoration were brought up. He greeted Nomé with a comical deference, paid exaggerated attention to everything she said, and, with exquisite tactlessness, broached the subject of her adventure with the footpads.

The Russian attaché entered just in time to save her from embarrassment. He was a smiling, dark, easy-mannered man, with a brown pointed beard, half bald, with twinkling eyes. His airs and graces cast a gloom over the inarticulate colonel who, routed by this competition, turned to Lady Felvex for appreciation.

The Russian was, in his turn, eclipsed by the arrival of Madame Spiritan, who, sailing in on a wave of laughter, filled the room with her vivacious presence. It was as if some whimsical songbird had fluttered indoors. Nomé's eyes sprang to meet the newcomer in excited anticipation. Then she stared as if in the presence of a ghost.

Madame Spiritan was no other than the woman she had seen in such questionable relations with Lord Felvex in the library only a few days previously. Nomé was astounded and indignant at the apparition—she had expected so different a messenger from Mangus. She had looked forward to the meeting, eager to welcome this new envoy of the Cause, a sister pledged, like her, to the noble perils of their crusade. Instead, she had to meet and greet a fashionable chatterbox, a society doll, not above the odium of a common, surreptitious flirtation. Nomé had little time to adjust herself, however, for Madame Spiritan was as voluble as ether, and her conversation, permeating the apartment, had the effect either of stupefying competition or of exhilarating repartee. She began to babble:

"Well, I am late, as usual; I don't know what is going to become of me—isn't it terrible? . . . How are you, my dear Lady Felvex? I haven't seen you in an age—when in the world was it?—and how d'y do, Colonel Grennyngs! I declare it is good to see you—and Count Pribdoff—how do you do?—I must have another game of bezique with you—now, don't you forget!—and oh, I saw you flirting desperately with Hetty Clancy at the Dorés' cotillion—don't you dare to deny it!—I never thought of you as a conservatory man, but I'll have my revenge—you'll see! All's fair in love and Welsh rabbits. Lord Felvex, I am charmed—you don't look a day over ninety tonight! Think of finding two men in one room with crosses! Two V.C.'s ought to amount to royalty. It does seem like a waste of bravery and courage and gallantry under fire and conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, doesn't it? It's a pity we can't coax a lion into the room just to see what you two highly decorated men would do. I'll wager you'd pull up your trousers and jump on the table like ordinary women!"

Colonel Grennyngs burst into a roar of laughter and drawled: "By Jove, Madame Spiritan, it would jolly well take a regiment of elephants before you'd funk, I give you my word!"

"Now do present me to Miss Destin," Madame Spiritan went on airily. "I'm simply expiring to meet her. Oh, I'm so pleased! I've heard about you and thought about you, Miss Destin, until I was actually black in the face! Do tell me, what does it feel like to be a celebrity and have your picture in the papers and resolutions drawn up and streets named after you, and all sorts of nice things? I haven't been an infant prodigy since I had the mumps—but seriously, I do think you are awfully clever and brave and noble and everything, and I do admire your pluck so much! Really, I do, and I want to know you and tell you how foolish it was to save such an old reprobate as Lord Felvex, and find out where in America you have to go to get a complexion like that! I couldn't manufacture one as good if I had twenty-seven beauty doctors working on me for six weeks—and if you'll only exchange your hair for mine, I'll give you a dozen pairs of gloves to boot, and every one of them will make two for you. I'm simply dying to be a brunette; blondes never do anything but get fat and marry or go on the stage—and yellow hair spells wallflower in every ballroom in Europe. You mustn't mind me if I run on like this, my dear; I'm only getting my breath. I'm trying to prevent Count Pribdoff's monopolizing you. He always has the prettiest woman in the room in chains before the evening's out, and wherever he goes he leaves a streak of fire. . . . Why, Lady Felvex! are you really waiting for me? Do let's go in, then; I'm half starved—nd when I'm hungry I always look like a fright. Give me your arm, count. Th going in to dinner always reminds me of a wedding procession with the butler standing at the serving-table like a fat bishop, and the waiter giving away the potatoes, and the terrified guests mumbling 'with this fork I thee eat'!"

So, humming a snatch of "Lohengrin," she gallivanted gaily into the dining-room.

Nomé's mind was whirling with the effects of this gambado. Could it be possible that such a scatterbrain had anything to do with the Cause? She was shocked at the appearance of levity in such a connection, and could not imagine herself taking orders from such a madcap, addle-pated creature.

Yet the note from Mangus gave her no other choice than to await Madame Spiritan's instructions. Had Nomé possessed a larger sense of humor the occasion, tragic as were its possibilities, might have afforded her considerable secret mirth. As it was, she felt like a serpent depending for aid upon a butterfly. As she sat upon her host's right hand, she watched Madame Spiritan's frivolous machinations with Count Pribdoff, who appeared to be well within her sphere of influence. Lady Felvex engaged the attention of Colonel Grennyngs, leaving her husband to converse with Nomé. The talk ran on for awhile in these three channels.

The butterfly soon began to range further afield, and caught the attention of the two other men. She put one elbow on the table and pointed a spoon at Colonel Grennyngs.

"Tell me, colonel," she said, "has the Victoria Cross ever been given to a woman?"

He turned to Nomé, and looking at her pointedly, said: "I don't see Miss Destin wearing any."

Nomé blushed, and Lord Felvex generously went to her assistance.

"There wouldn't be bronze enough in the world to make crosses of if we began to decorate the women who deserve them; and most women would have so many clasps that they couldn't carry them."

"Every factory girl in the land would be eligible," Nomé added.

"My dear Miss Destin," Madame Spiritan exclaimed, "I hardly think it will do for factory girls to be discussed, until the men are left alone with their coffee."

Nomé's cheeks were blazing again, and this time Lady Felvex interposed.

"The woman who can prevent men from finishing their coffee within three-quarters of an hour deserves a cross more than anyone, I think. I have no doubt that either Colonel Grennyngs or my husband would give theirs up to you, Madame Spiritan."

"Indeed, I shall not tempt them, thank you. They can have as long as they wish to smoke. I intend to have a tête-à-tête with Miss Destin after dinner and talk about New York. She must know loads of my friends there."

For the first time she shot a direct glance at Nomé, one with a semblance of hidden meaning behind it. Then she gushed on again:

"I was a factory girl once; that's why I'm so sensitive about them. I'd never dare to acknowledge it if I weren't Irish. Being an Irishwoman is almost as good as being an American girl—and that's the next best thing to coming from Mars direct."

The rest of the dinner conversation passed almost unheeded by Nomé. Her mind was whirling, fearful of what was to come afterward. Something, she knew, was to be revealed as soon as she and Madame Spiritan could be alone. It was so different from what she had expected that it took all her energy to say to herself; "I am not really a guest here in this house, but a spy, an assassin ready at a moment's notice from this woman to shoot down my host in cold blood." Try as she might she could not adjust herself to this role; her ally's frivolous talk disconcerted her; she answered mechanically the questions that were put to her. Had she not possessed a natural fluency she would have betrayed her state of mind.

The lights of the candles, the reflections on silver and cut-glass danced before her eyes; she was as if in a dream, and in the dream she heard voluble phrases and well-turned sentences coming from her own lips, while she resurrected old ready-made opinions and criticisms of Bernard Shaw, Nietzsche and Grieg, the season's drama, the political situation in America, equal suffrage for women, British colonization, the rise of the Russian national spirit—on all of which topics she had thought well.

On her right Colonel Grennyngs, under the spell of her unconscious charm, plied her with persistent compliments; while, on the other side, she was distracted by the sight of Lord Felvex's handsome face. His deference and sympathy tortured her with memories of what he had been to her. From time to time sallies of laughter from the count, fascinated by the more flamboyant attractions of Madame Spiritan, greeted that lady's persiflage. Lady Felvex's quiet, gentle bearing was the only relief to Nomé's distracted mood. Here, she felt instinctively, she could find a friend, and would always find one, whatever happened. Lady Felvex's sure, intuitive sense of justice was bound to the girl's soul, for, whatever the issue, she was sure that here was one who would never judge her quickly or harshly.

The ladies at last withdrew, and passed into the drawing-room. Lady Felvex, hospitably mindful of Madame Spiritan's desire to talk with Nomé, left the two alone and, making a simple pretext, went upstairs. Madame Spiritan continued her drolleries until the door was closed. Then her manner suddenly changed.

She took Nomé's arm and drew her to a seat upon the divan. From beneath the berthe of sequins that ornamented the breast of her own gown she hurriedly drew a velvet bag.

"Here," she said, "you must take this, first of all. Quick, now! It is a revolver. Be careful, it's loaded. I'll show you where to hide it." And turning up the fichu of lace about Nomé's neck she fastened the bag in place with pins, then draped the cascades over the spot and rearranged the corsage bouquet of roses so that everything was hidden.

"As soon as you are in your room," she said, "put it in some safe place, where you can get it at an instant's notice. There!" Her eye had flown from Nomé's breast to the door, back and forth, as she worked; but, when the weapon was well hidden, she fell back against the cushions. Nomé's troubled eyes followed her. Her lips were part and her heart beat fast with the imminence of the peril betokened by these preparations.

"Must I do it tonight?" she whispered.

"I can't tell yet," was the answer. "I think not. Yet there is no telling how soon we may receive word from Berne. I may receive a telegram at any moment. You must hold yourself prepared to act at an instant's notice from Mangus or from me. It may be postponed for a month, or it may come in ten minutes. Listen; this will be your signal— 'It is only one of many.' When you get that sentence, either in writing from Mangus or from my lips"—she had dropped her voice to a whisper—"you are to shoot Lord Felvex, and you are to shoot to kill. Do you understand?"

Nomé's head fell on her hand. "I understand," she murmured.

Scarcely had she spoken when the door opened and a maid entered bearing coffee, liqueurs and cigarettes. Nomé saw at a glance that it was Irma Strieb, and looked to Madame Spiritan for her cue. To her surprise the lady's air instantly changed, and her torrent of nonsense broke loose again.

"Now, really, my dear Miss Destin, you ought to read some of the New Thought. You've no idea what a comfort it is to know that you don't have to do things and break your back and spoil your fingers trying to earn money and get on and be popular, and wheedle old men and flatter old women, but only just lie down on the sofa with a box of chocolates and take off your slippers and relax and devitalize and set your psychic forces in motion, and everything that's good and beautiful and splendid and lovely will come galloping toward you on horseback. You ought to place yourself in a mood to induce receptivity and trust in the All-Good, and just let the vibrations bring about the phenomena. It's perfectly lovely, and saves all your worry and brain fag and nerve force and money and everything. I tell you, people don't half realize what a wonderful help can be gained through not worrying about things and just eating your dinner peaceably and letting the universal what-you-may-call-it radiate through you. Why, when I think of all the martyrs that have burned at the stake, and had their teeth pulled out and their toes cut off—ugh! isn't it horrid?—just because they didn't know enough to enter into the harmony and oneness of things and rely upon the objectivity of thought and spiritual influence, it does seem a shame, doesn't it? But I'm sure we are growing to a higher and a nobler conception of existence and life forces and truth and things. Lady Felvex says that the New Thought is nothing but a cheap, sloppy optimism, and why don't we go to Emerson or Plato and get it in solid junks without capitals and italics and milk and water. But I must say these little magazines and blue-covered books with funny title-pages do chew it up for you so fine and thin that a mere child ought to be able to put transcendental forces in motion and bring about introactive relations with the All-in-All, and it has done me loads of good. I'm happy and contented and at peace with the great principles of life, and I don't worry about the Submerged Tenth, or tuberculosis, or anything like that, and I think that's a great gain, don't you?"

As she warbled on, she helped herself daintily to the coffee, poured a glass of bénédictine and took a cigarette. Irma Strieb was stolidly oblivious of all save her duties, and as soon as the two ladies had been served, left the room without a word or look of recognition.

"Don't you know who she is?" Nomé whispered in perplexity.

"I know her, but she doesn't know me, by any means. You and Mangus are the only persons in England who know my secret, and you would never have been told if it hadn't been for the extraordinary complications of the situation."

She dropped her voice to a lower pitch: "My dear, Mangus has asked me to do what I can to induce you to transfer your services to the International Committee. We need information that can be obtained only by women who are willing to live as I do. There's no use mincing matters—I'm a spy. I report directly to Berne, but I act in co-operation with Mangus at the head of the English section. You could help us enormously with your charm and your education and the immense advantage you have acquired in having saved Lord Felvex. We need women like you, and if you are willing to join that branch of the work there is much for you to do, though there is little enough glory in it. This assassination, as the English section planned it, is a mere detail, and we can easily find someone else to carry it out. The whole situation has developed so startlingly in the last month that we are sitting tight, awaiting advices from Switzerland. You are given the choice, however, of joining the secret service with me, or of carrying out your original errand. But you must choose immediately between the two. Your action, whatever it is, must be voluntary."

Nomé answered firmly: "Madame Spiritan, it is too late now to recede or to change. I have no choice but to go on as I began. I would always be suspected by the Circle of treachery if I kept the place I seem to hold now. Besides all this, there are other reasons that impel me to keep to my original intention. The whole success or failure of my life depends upon it. I've had enough of theories and abstractions and equivocal positions; I must act for once, and put my convictions to the test. I don't care to live, but I do want to end my life with some one big thing having been accomplished. The suspense and the hypocrisy of the situation are unbearable, and I can scarcely wait to end it all."

"You are a brave girl," said Madame Spiritan; "you are magnificent! I confess I couldn't do it. I can pull the wool over the eyes of these fools, hoodwink men, deceive women, eavesdrop and play the spy—that is my métier. But I could no more pull the trigger of that revolver than I could come into this drawing-room in a last year's frock. It is settled, then. I'm sorry for you, my dear girl, but you to your work and I to mine; we are both laboring for the Cause."

Nomé looked up at her in frank admiration. "Oh, I had no idea you were like this!" she whispered. "How I misjudged you! How little I know of life, of human nature—almost as little, Madame Spiritan, as I know of myself. How much I long to know!—and how little, little time I have in which to learn!"

Madame Spiritan took both Nomé's hands in hers, and the tears were in her eyes. "You are very young, dear," she answered. "Indeed, you have much to learn. I am a woman—do you think I enjoy my hypocrisy? Do you think I can go about, two-faced, double-tongued, laughed at or despised as a scatterbrain, a doll, a flirt, without feeling my degradation? And I know, too, how much worse than that I am! The lowest sneak-thief is better, if I allow myself to think by the world's standards. But, Nomé, we have given up the world's standards for something higher. We have pledged to this Cause not only our lives but our honor. I gave mine willingly, cheerfully, and so must you give yours."

"0h, how you have helped me!" Nomé exclaimed in her relief at finding, at last, a worthy comrade to support her in this agony of her spirit. She smiled through her tears. "I think I can bear it now," she said simply. "And yet—there is one thing, Madame Spiritan, that you do not know—that you could never guess—you have no idea of my weakness—I could not confess it to a man—but—Lord Felvex——"

Madame Spiritan bent over and kissed her upon the cheek. "I know," she said. "It was partly for that that I offered you the chance to act with me."

"No! no!" Nomé cried bitterly. "Never that! I must die. I long for death!"

"We shall make all possible preparation for your escape the moment we receive advices," Madame Spiritan continued hurriedly. "But I must warn you that there is little hope of our being able to get you off; less chance than there was before. In plain terms, it is murder—and really, my dear Miss Destin, I think your tall buildings in New York are the most atrocious things! That Flatiron building is, for all the world, like a huge slice of cheese, filled with maggots; and as for your Elevated trains, one might as well climb into the inside of an anaconda and be done with it!"

Her quick ear had detected the rustling of Lady Felvex's silk skirts outside the door, and before it swung open Madame Spiritan's bubbling pleasantries were filling the room. Nomé, despite her agitation, could not fail to admire the marvelous agility of her fellow-conspirator's wits. She herself found some trouble in managing the change of mood, and, to conceal her nervousness, rose to greet her hostess.

"Madame Spiritan has been most amusing," she said, "but we have missed you. Lady Felvex."

Almost immediately the drawing-room doors were thrown open and the men entered. The conversation became general, and Nomé, stimulated by the excitement, began to talk. She soon held the circle of guests in delight with her conversation. Colonel Grennyngs's eyes did not leave her. The count forgot, for the while, the giddier attractions of Madame Spiritan. The minister drew the girl out with skilful questions. Lady Felvex watched her curiously, much interested in the effect she was producing upon the men.

The color was sustained in Nomé's cheeks. Her eyes were dark with emotion, her gestures were animated by the insistence of her soul to prepare a defense for herself against the time of accusation. She turned the talk toward the higher ethical subjects and the martyrs of all great causes, defending even those who, half crazed by brooding over great wrongs, had made their tremendous but sublime mistakes with the high-mindedness of patriots. Madame Spiritan, as Nomé approached these radical theories, mingled a running stream of whimsical comment; but the interest of the men was held, despite their objections, in admiration of the girl's eloquence, and Nomé's object was attained. Whatever should happen now, she could never be accused of a common, vulgar treachery. She had said enough to make them pause in their judgment of her when her hour had struck. It was characteristic of her vanity that she should take the pains thus to pave the way for her apologists. She could not bear to be anything less than wonderful, anything less than a heroine.

The talk finally ebbed until a game of bridge was proposed. Madame Spiritan eagerly accepted the opportunity to break up the gravity of the evening. A party was arranged, consisting of herself and the three men. Lady Felvex protesting her desire to look on with Nomé, who could not play.

It was now Madame Spiritan's turn to entertain the company, and, in spite of the etiquette of the game, she kept up a continual fire of raillery. Lady Felvex took her place upon the divan, holding Nomé's hand.

The play had gone on for half an hour when the door opened and Irma Strieb entered, bearing an envelope upon a tray.

"A telegram for Madame Spiritan," she announced, and handed it to that lady.

Nomé freed herself from Lady Pelvex's hand. Her own flew to her breast. There it rested, trembling, upon the weapon hidden under the fichu while her eyes stared fixedly at the group seated about the table, awaiting the signal that might come.

"Why in the world do you suppose they pursue me with telegrams so?" Madame Spiritan complained pettishly, tearing open the envelope. "Now I shall forget the run of the game, and you'll have to suffer for it, Count Pribdoff. There's only one possible excuse for a telegram, and that's the death of a rich uncle in New Zealand. Everything else ought to wait until after breakfast and be sterilized before it's brought to the table. Now, what do you think of that? Fancy! this is from my milliner. I get them all the time, and they always say the same thing: 'No answer received from bill sent last week.' Colonel, it's your lead, I believe. Is it diamonds or spades?" She tore the paper into scraps and tucked it carefully into the front of her gown, then took up her cards.

Nomé's hand fell to her side, and she leaned back against the cushions with an unconscious sigh.

VII

With this respite, Nomé had time to fall into her old doubts again. Although Madame Spiritan's character and purpose were now clear to her, Nomé's suspicions of Lord Felvex's weakness and flippancy were hideous. His complacent attitude during the little tête-à-tète she had surprised was not to be forgotten nor explained. He had been chivalrous enough to forbear to insist upon his old love—was he then consoling himself with the cheap delights of a new? It seemed so inconsistent with his character that Nomé would have scorned to believe it, were it not that, believing, it made her work, upon the whole, easier. If she could only believe it thoroughly, she would be glad of a wound to her pride that would be so relieving a counter-irritant, a narcotic to her own personal love.

But she could not believe it. Her lover himself destroyed her doubt, while, at the same time, digging still deeper the pitfall of deceit into which she must fall.

His first careful avoidance of her society had become more and more impossible. While she was in immediate expectation of the word to act, she had kept aloof, but the continuance of her stay had brought them necessarily together so often that the two had fallen naturally into a semblance of their old familiarity. Their talk ranged wide, for their sympathy on all matters excepting social science was complete.

They could not long, however, evade the one subject which colored their whole association. As she fell again under the spell of his frankness and breadth of view, she felt more and more desirous of impressing him with her own steadfastness of purpose, and the emotional intensity which had always succeeded with others. Most of all she desired to justify herself, before it was too late.

Lord Felvex gave her this opportunity one morning after breakfast. He had come upon her, unexpectedly, in the library, much as she had come upon him, and there was something in the surprise of the meeting that brought them suddenly closer together than they had been before. It was, in fact, the first time that he had seen her alone since his visit to her.

She let her book fall, and looked up at him with an attempt at calmness, but her confusion was apparent. He stopped at sight of her, then put down his hat and gloves, and stood for an instant leaning against the open shelves of books. She had begun to tremble before he spoke.

"Nomé," he said, "I can't stand this; what prevents our being friends?"

Her eyes fell. "Oh, it's no use," she murmured.

"What prevents our being friends?" he repeated. "Have I some enemy to whom you are pledged?"

"No, no enemy—at least, none that need matter."

"Have I changed so much that you cannot care for me?"

"Oh, no! Surely not that!"

"Have you?"

"No, not in that way."

"Then we are friends—really."

"Yes, that's what tortures me. I can't explain. Don't ask me to. You have friends enough. Console yourself with them."

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you have friends enough."

"Whom?" He knitted his brows, and then, dropping into a chair beside her, he looked at her steadily. "Do you mean anyone in particular, Nomé?"

"No." But she avoided his glance.

"Is it possible—that you mean—Madame Spiritan, for instance?"

The color rushed to her face as she replied, returning his gaze boldly enough now: "I have perceived your predilection."

"And that, then, is what prevents our friendship?"

"Oh, no!"

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you can imagine there is anything between Madame Spiritan and me?"

"I am sure that there is not. But I am not sure that it is your fault. It does not matter, anyway. You know me well enough to believe me incapable of any such vulgar jealousy."

"Nomé, let me say this: you know the responsibility of my position, in a way, but perhaps you do not know that my office compels me oftentimes to keep up acquaintances which, personally, I should prefer to be free from. Surely you will be reasonable enough to distinguish between the man and the office."

"Oh, I do! I do! It is because of your official capacity, precisely, that we cannot be friends."

"And for no other reason?"

She let her head fall upon her hand to hide her shamed face from him. Then she said slowly: "Yes, and for another reason. Why will you wring it from me? Don't you know? Can't you see? I have loved you, and I can't forget it! I can't even keep it decently to myself. This first time we are alone it shrieks aloud!"

"But I don't understand—you said that there was another."

"There is, or there was. But I can't forget you! I have no pride, no honor, no constancy left. To think of you for an instant proves me unfaithful and unworthy of the other, but to cling to the other must prove that my first, fresh, dewy morning of love was false and has died. I can't bear it. No matter which way I turn I am false and untrue! I have prided myself on my steadfastness of purpose, my strength of feeling, my abandon, my wholeness of emotion, and now I am weaker than the merest dabbler in sensations."

Lord Felvex took her hand in both his. "Don't say that, Nomé," he pleaded. "Don't make me forget, too! Oh, if only my own happiness and yours were at stake, I would show you the cheapness of that pride of yours! I would show you which way to turn for happiness! I would conquer you and save you and preserve you."

"And if I were only concerned with my happiness," she replied, looking at him through her tears, "I would take you! Oh, I can speak the truth at times! I would cast everything aside, and hold to you, whether you would nave me or not. I would stake all on that first awakening into life, and believe it the best and truest. But I cannot, George, I cannot! Nor, if I could, would there ever again be peace in my heart! 'Mein' Ruh ist hin!' I must leave you."

"Yes," he assented. "It is the only way."

"I will leave as soon as possible. But we must spare Lady Felvex—I will not be abrupt."

"On the contrary," he replied, "Lady Felvex must know everything!"

"Can you tell her?"

"She is my best friend. You do not know her!"

Nomé leaned to him impulsively, and kissed him, then sprang up. "I had forgotten how fine you were!" she said.

"I had forgotten nothing about you," he said, smiling.

"And perhaps, now, we can be friends. I am not afraid any more. Perhaps sometime you will understand. I thought I was strong enough to bear it, but I broke down. Yet, somehow, I feel the stronger for it."

It was not till the exhilaration of his presence had left her, and she had gone to her room, that she began to awaken to her responsibility, and the hideous mistake she had made in permitting this crisis to arrive. She had again fallen a prey to her emotions and her vanity. She had been lured on again by the desire to right herself in his eyes, and had come near to ruining the projects of the Cause by precipitating a rupture with the household. How could she explain this to Mangus, who depended upon her maintaining friendly relations with Lord Felvex? There was only one chance for her—that her orders should come before she had to leave the house. She had had her scene, and now she must risk the consequences.

It was with a tortured mind that she repented her indulgence. As before, she had thought, felt and spoken; even in this scene she had not acted. But, as before, she made a brave attempt to cajole her conscience with promises. When the time came—then she would prove herself!

From the day when her duty was postponed Nomé had kept a journal, and every day she had written pages of confidential confession, intending that it should vindicate her to the world after her act was consummated. She spent much energy upon this task, often writing far into the night. It was expressed in as guarded terms as she could invent; nevertheless, her conscience reproved her for the indiscretion, for the book, if discovered before her deed was enacted, might have destroyed the plans of the Movement. She could not deny herself the satisfaction of writing, however, and condoned the offense with feminine casuistry. She was engaged upon this business one day when, after a knock upon the door, Irma Strieb entered.

Nomé looked up in surprise, for up to this time the two women had never been alone. Now Irma's face expressed fellowship for the first time.

"Ospovat is downstairs and wishes to see you," she said.

"Ospovat?" Nomé repeated. "Here?"

"Yes," Irma replied. She came nearer, with the excuse of arranging the flowers upon the table. "I don't like it," she whispered. "He should stay away. Mangus would be furious if he knew, but Ospovat always was a little fool—especially over you."

"I must see him," said Nomé..

"Of course, I knew you would," Irma retorted.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have lost your heart—that you are weakening—and I expected it!"

Nomé rose and pointed toward the door. "You must go!" she said. "I don't dare to argue with you here—it is too dangerous—but you are mistaken, or you're false. You know well enough that I'm obeying orders as much as you, and that I must wait."

"I know well enough that you are always the fine lady, and I do the dirty work! And I know more, that you like it as much as I dislike it. And I suspect still more, too. I am glad of one thing, though, that I am here to watch you. I've seen and heard almost enough already," Irma's face was sullen as she turned to go.

"For heavens sake, be careful how you talk!" Nomé entreated. "It won't do for you to be seen here with me, and least of all with any such evidence of a quarrel. You must believe in me, Irma. I am suffering too much already from my position to have to bear the taunts of my own comrades."

"Am I your comrade, or is Lord Felvex—the man you were chosen to kill?" Irma demanded.

Scarcely had she said the words when there was a knock at the door. Irma opened it. Lady Felvex entered, but upon seeing the two women, each with heightened color, she hesitated at the threshold. "I beg your pardon," she began.

"Irma came up to announce a caller," Nomé explained.

"Irma has no business here," said Lady Felvex. Then, turning to the girl, she added: "Where is Woodley? Why didn't he bring up Miss Destin's caller's card?"

"Woodley was busy—at least, I told him I was coming upstairs, and offered to announce Miss Destin's friend. You see, Woodley wouldn't let the gentleman in at first."

"This is most extraordinary!" said Lady Felvex. "I can't imagine, Miss Destin, why my footman has taken it upon himself to comment upon your callers, nor why he shouldn't have come up to you. I shall most certainly look into the matter."

"Woodley was busy, my lady," Irma repeated, and in speaking betrayed enough emotion for Lady Felvex to give her a swift look.

"Irma has not been annoying you in any way, Nomé?" she hazarded.

"Oh, by no means! " Nomé hastened to protest. Irma's face had grown dark.

"If I thought it were possible, I should discharge her immediately," Lady Felvex remarked. Then, turning to the maid, she said seriously: "Irma, you must not forget that Miss Destin is the most honored guest I could possibly entertain. You have no right in this room, and it is perfectly evident to me that your coming here is the result of some pretext. Your face shows that something has been said that should not have been said, though Miss Destin is too kind to admit it."

"My dear Lady Felvex, believe me, Irma has said nothing discourteous or unnecessary. I beg you to say no more about it."

Lady Felvex left the room with Irma, and Nomé trembled to think of the difficulties that might ensue from this contretemps. Irma's brooding, lowering looks betokened trouble. It was unfortunate that Lady Felvex had so keenly read the situation.

She went down to see Ospovat, ill at ease, but anticipating his sympathy and trust. She was almost ashamed to think how much she needed his blind confidence, how his words would cheer and cool her.

He was awaiting her, embarrassed and awkward, in the luxuriance of the Felvex reception-room. Other guests had always filled it, and it had framed them with a harmonious background, but the little Russian Jew seemed lost in its elegance, more pathetically ridiculous than ever. He sat on the edge of a gilded chair, twirling his hat in his hands, gnawing his lip, eagerly watching the door.

His joy at seeing her was touching. His tears fell upon her hand like rain as he saluted her. He was no less frightened than embarrassed, also, in the evident fear that his visit might compromise her. As soon as he could control himself so as to talk freely, his intense emotion broke forth in hurried words.

"Ah, how good it is to see you again, Nomé, and to look into your soul through your beautiful eyes! If only the others could see you! I have counted the days—I have watched for you in the Park—I have read the papers that told how you were getting well! I love you more than ever, Nomé, dear Nomé—don't ask me not to tell you so, for I must! How I have suffered with you—if I could only suffer for you! But that, too, shall be, some time!"

"You believe in me, after all?" Nomé said, hanging upon his words.

"Ah, yes; how can I not trust you, my wonderful Nomé! I trust you always, in spite of anything they may say, and I defend you always!"

"They doubt me, then, at the Circle?" Nomé ventured, sick at heart.

"You must not blame them—they are all wild and mad! I do not know what is the matter with them; but those articles in the papers have stirred them up. They have seen you riding out with the minister and his wife. I know you could not help it, but it has made much trouble. I have defended you always. I told them that you fired at the minister and hit the robber by mistake—I don't care if you did or not—what you did was right, but I could not bear to hear you so spoken of, you who are so wonderful a heroine, who are worth more than all the Circle put together!"

"What do they say?" Nomé demanded.

"Do not make me tell you," Ospovat pleaded, the tears coming into his eyes.

"You must tell me," Nomé insisted. "Tell me all!"

Ospovat's face grew white, and he almost whimpered. "They say you are a traitor—they say you have forgotten all about the Cause, now, with your rich friends—but I know it is not true, Nomé! Tell me it is not true!"

"Of course it is not true," said Nomé coldly, "but go on—tell me everything!"

"They say that you were once an aristocrat—only because you had a little money at home—and that you will end by being an aristocrat—and will leave us poor men and women to make the fight alone."

"This is O'Brien, of course!"

"Yes, O'Brien curses you day by day. You know how he is."

"Yes, I know. Once he was so fond of me he could not say enough. He said too much for me to believe. It is like him to go to the other extreme. I might have known it."

"But he can't see the big side of it—it is only that, Nomé. Don't hate him, please! Even I don't hate him. I'm sorry, that's all—he'll know better some time. He wants the minister killed only because the minister killed Kinston and Moreley and Spayrock. O'Brien can't forget that—he wants revenge."

"Are there many with him?"

"Yes, many—too many—of the Circle. They are all wrought up. It was the papers and the driving in the Park that did it, and it has stirred them up so that Mangus has hard work to hold them."

"No one believes in me, then?"

"Ah, I believe in you, Nomé, and some of the others, but the women are all jealous. But you will show them! You will do it, and I shall help you! You surely will make another trial, Nomé?"

"I shall do what I can. You know I must wait and be silent. But this terrible suspense must end." Nomé hesitated before she put the next question.

"What does Mangus say?"

"He says nothing but that we must wait—always wait! I can't understand it. Why can't it be done immediately? Do you know?"

"I know something of it, but I can't tell you. This thing is bigger than we thought, and we must obey orders."

"I know. I came to help you. Nomé, if you should lack the courage, if your woman's body should weaken, though your woman's soul never could—won't you let me help you?"

"Ah, you do doubt me, then? I was sure of it."

"No, no, no! Only—O'Brien was for another casting of the lots—I volunteered myself, but Mangus would not have it. There's only one thing I'm afraid of—perhaps Lord Felvex has become too much your friend. Is he your friend?"

"Yes; I have learned to admire him more and more."

"Then how much greater the deed will be! Think of it, Nomé—think what a chance you have! Who will not stop to listen to us when you, who have saved his life, who have made him your friend, can sacrifice him to the Cause! Never has anyone had such a chance to publish the Cause. They will have to hear us then."

Nomé could scarcely speak. She felt for Ospovat's hand in sympathy. "Ospovat! you remember our talk, that night before I went out to act?"

"Yes."

"You remember that I told you that I had loved—someone?"

"Yes." He sat staring at her with his lips apart; then he sprang to his feet. "Oh, Nomé, Nomé! Do you mean that Lord Felvex is that man—that you love him?"

"Yes—I love him."

He fell on his knees and kissed her hand. "Oh, my poor Nomé! How glorious a chance, how terrible a chance you have!"

She looked at him wide-eyed.

"How glorious!" he repeated, and looked up at her with the rapt face of the enthusiast. "You love him! My God, it will be wonderful! Never, never has one had such an opportunity. We shall win ten years in advancing the propaganda!"

Even Nomé, accustomed to such lofty ideals of renunciation, wondered at Ospovat's simplicity and direct vision. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that she could fail, that she would do else than welcome this blessing of her mission, giving all for the Cause. She almost resented the slight consideration he gave to her personal feelings. It annoyed her to have him so sure of her—to seem to make so little of her trial.

"Ospovat," she said, "if it were I who should be killed, and you who were the one to kill me, would you do it?"

"Why, of course!" he said, and his voice expressed surprise at the question. "It would be beautiful, Nomé! Don't men often kill the women they love? What other women do they ever kill? But you would not die alone, of course. I would kill myself immediately. Then it would be all right."

There was the noise as of a door quickly shut at the other end of the room. Nomé and Ospovat came to themselves in an instant, for the scene had carried them into another world. Nomé went to the hall door and looked out. By the dining-room she saw Irma with Lady Felvex, both evidently angered. What had happened? She and Ospovat had talked without caution, and both doors had been open.

She dismissed the Jew immediately with a hurried farewell and then walked, her heart beating, to the dining-room.

"I am very sorry to say that I have just discharged Irma," said Lady Felvex. "I came downstairs to find her at the reception-room door, and I am much afraid she was eavesdropping." She took Nomé's cold hand in hers. "You do not know how badly I feel about this, especially after what probably happened in your own room. I do not know, of course, how long Irma had been listening, but I trust that she heard nothing important! I am so distressed about this having happened that I don't know what to do, but it cannot be helped now, and we must hope that nothing will come of it. We are safe for the future, at all events. To think that such a thing could happen in my house, to my guest! You will try to forgive it, dear?"

VIII

Nomé passed a sleepless night, the victim of foreboding. She had long been aware of Irma's envy, although it had been masked when the two met in the Circle. The only evidences of any strained relation had been those subtle pin-pricks of women's warfare, which are so slight as to pass unnoticed before men's eyes.

But a submerged feud had been going on for months. Nomé heretofore had been too proud to notice Irma's innuendoes, and had treated them with contempt. She could well afford to ignore them, feeling herself intellectually, as well as physically, the superior. But now the breach was opened, and she felt that danger was imminent. She prepared herself to act upon the defensive.

A day passed, and nothing warned her of Irma's malignity. But the next morning word came from Mangus in the early post. It was a message in a cipher, adopted by the Circle since the renewed activity of the Movement, and its final commitment to its hazardous line of aggressive action.

The envelope, which bore a typewritten address, contained a sheet of white paper upon which was pasted three scraps of newspaper. The first contained the words "THE TIMES," which was Mangus's own code-word. The second clipping bore the printed word "Persona!" which signified a desired meeting, and the third was merely a date line showing that the interview was asked for the ensuing afternoon.

Although Nomé had for some time been able to go out alone, she had dared hold no communication with members of the Circle, and her walks, therefore, had been so lonely and aimless that she had taken scant advantage of her freedom. Ospovat's call had been surreptitious, and would probably never have been discovered had not Irma happened to overhear the footman's comments on Miss Destin's caller. The violation of the rule which had been imposed by Mangus was, of course, Ospovat's fault, but Nomé stood ready to bear the brunt of any possible rebuke for disobedience. Despite the prospect of Mangus's harshness, she felt now that she must see him and bring this long suspense to an end. What would be possible after he became aware of her indiscretion in making it impossible for herself to stay longer in the Felvex household, she did not much care. If necessary, she would take the law into her own hands, for her own soul's salvation.

So that afternoon she left word for Lady Felvex that she was to be away for a few hours, but would return in time for dinner. Leaving the house alone, she walked to Piccadilly Circus and took a penny 'bus to Chelsea.

Mangus lived in one of a row of brick houses of the Restoration period on the Queen's Road, opposite the Royal Hospital. It stood a little back from the street, a high, wrought-iron fence shutting off a grass plat containing two plane trees. His rooms were on the top floor, whose three small dormer windows gave upon the inclosure of the Pensioners' Home. One casement was open, and, as she came to the gate, she caught sight of his head with its red fez as he sat smoking his pipe, watching for her appearance. He saw her before she had time to knock, and came down himself to let her in. She followed him up the stair through the old painted, paneled hall.

The room was low studded, its ceiling broken into sloping planes and its walls cut into strange corners and recesses; the whole covered with an old-fashioned figured paper, bulging like huge blisters where the dampness had loosened its paste. Two kitchen tables, a bookcase and a few worn easy-chairs all strewn with books, papers and pamphlets sufficed for furniture. For decoration, caricatures from French and German papers were pinned to the walls. The remains of a sixpenny lunch lay upon a tray on the narrow mantel over the fireplace, and the worn, soiled linoleum on the floor was littered with sundry articles from Mangus's somewhat reproachable wardrobe. An inner room showed through a low door, dark and gloomy, and beyond, a window, outside which the shadowy branches of an oak tree waved listlessly.

For awhile Mangus said nothing, pacing the room, sucking at his pipe, and casting an occasional lowering glance at the girl who sat disconsolately enough beside the hearth. Then he shot a question as deliberately as one might let fly an arrow.

"So you are in love with Lord Felvex, eh?"

It was sudden, but to Nomé it was neither kind nor unkind, coming from her grizzled chief. Its brusque directness was but an evidence of his character. She knew how the paramount issue of the Cause had blotted out his sense of the lesser delicacies of personal consideration. This sort of brutality Nomé had always at once resented and admired, and now, as before, she was brought under the compelling spell of his irresistible will. The suspense and mental distress of the last month, besides, had cooled her fire somewhat, and there was a furtive sense of guilt upon her.

"I am," she said quietly. "Why?"

Mangus stopped and stared at her, sucking at his pipe. Then he shrugged his round shoulders.

"You have made good use of your time!" he sneered. "Upon my word, I thought you were going to deny it! I swear I hoped you were worth something more than this. Good God—to dabble in pink-and-white schoolgirl romance at such a time! It's incredible. What do you mean, girl? Have you lost your wits because you got your name in the papers? Why, if you had waded not more than one toe deep into the Movement I don't see how you could have stultified yourself so! And I almost believed in you; I fancied that emotion could take the place of intellect, by God! Put that feather in your cap, along with your other conquests—that you hoodwinked Luke Mangus! If you never do anything else, you can brag of that to Saint Peter. Talk about women's hearts! How long did it take you to go mad, then? How long did this frock-coated Lothario take to seduce you from honor and reason and faith? How long ago, Nomé, did you find out that you had become the latest toy of the Spirit of the Race?"

"About four years," she answered steadily.

His hands, which had been clasped behind his back, flew forward and he seized her hand. "Do you mean that Lord Felvex is the man you told me about—the man you loved before?"

"Of course! How else could this have happened?"

His whole manner had changed on the instant, and as much as there was in him of gentleness came to the surface in a wave of tenderness that surprised her. "Oh, Nomé, I beg your pardon," he said. "Strange! I didn't think of that. I thought of everything but that—everything but the unexpected which I should have known would happen—the 'long arm of coincidence' we are forced to feel so miraculously often! Strange I couldn't understand!"

She shook herself free now, with rising anger. "Could you think so lightly of me that you could believe me capable of so cheap a piece of egoism? It was an affront to me—you should have known me better! What have I done—how have I treated the Cause that you could have thought of me as so futile, so unsteady a soul? Oh, I have been weak, I know, but I have not been so weak as that!"

"Indeed, I did not believe it, quite, Nomé. Until you admitted it, I believed it but the gossip of an envious woman. Now I understand—let it pass—we have no time for quarrels, you and I. The point is, you are in love again, and that puts a new face on the whole matter. I'm sorry for you, girl. It is hard; but if you have given so much for the Cause, you must give more. Only, someone else must do the work." He eyed her keenly under his heavy brows.

"Someone else?" she repeated.

"Certainly!" Mangus replied. "Surely you cannot do it now!"

She took his right hand in both hers and grasped it hard.

"Ah, you'll not go back on me, Mangus, will you? You've not lost faith in me because I failed the first time? What can the Cause ask that I will not give—and do!"

He watched her as a physician watches a patient through a crisis, smiling at her burst of enthusiasm.

"What can it ask of you, Nomé? An ounce of lead, and a steady eye behind it—an eye without tears, and a finger that will not tremble! And that you will never have to give, I fear. And yet—if you could do it!"

"I shall!"

"If you could do it, no one else would do so well!"

"I can!"

"If you could do it," he said again, "the affair would have an éclat that would be worth more to us than twenty assassinations. You are already well known in London—we may say you are famous. By rescuing the minister you have a news value to the papers. Everything that can be found out about you will be printed. And you yourself, if you sacrifice the last shred of your privacy, can intensify the sensation a thousand-fold. No one is better qualified for such a work. You might even write something that would be printed after the affair—if it were not suppressed, it would be read by three million men the next day!"

"I have written something, Nomé admitted timidly. "I have been keeping a journal for a month, and it might well be used for propaganda purposes, if I succeed."

"By God!" he cried, "have you, then? Do you see the dramatic possibilities of that? Oh, I'll not spare you now! I'll have every drop of your blood! I'll strip you naked, heaven help me! You'll go down into the arena for wild beasts to devour, but there'll be millions to see you die, and it will not be for nothing. Oh, you'll be a picturesque heroine, if I can manage it! We'll send you like a fire-ship into the enemy's fleet. You've been indiscreet, girl—it was madness to endanger our plan by putting anything into writing, but I'll forgive that now! There have been martyrs before, Nomé, but when we burn you at the stake the fire will light up the world! By God, I envy you!"

He looked at her now, much as one looks at a thoroughbred horse before the race, noting her points. Not one escaped him. Her burning black eyes, the fresh, dainty color mantling her cheeks, the rare grace of her spirited head set so buoyantly upon the perfect neck, her gracile, poetic hands—and, above all, the divine fervor of her soul, illuminating every glance, every gesture, ringing in every cadence of her voice. She sat, submissive to his scrutiny, her cheek on fire with the violence of his admiration and the heart-breaking cruelty of the picture he had painted. It cut her as with knives, but the pain exalted her—she rose to the ecstasy of sacrifice, kindling to a sublime sense of impersonality under the spell.

"I had hoped that you would enter the secret service with Madame Spiritan," he went on, "for we need help there. Your charms would serve, if you were willing to spend them on aristocratic dupes, the way Belle Spiritan does. But you're not the temperament to go into the subtleties of such machinations—I see that now. You're not clever enough for an international spy. You're too intense, you're too egoistic to adapt yourself to the thousand polite acts that are necessary. Belle Spiritan's quite the type for that—you're for the grand heroics. You are to advertise the Cause, to illuminate our errand and purpose, as I'm to stand behind you all and pull the wires. What does it matter who gets the fame or the reward or the pain and the shame, so long as the Cause goes on? Now, for your sentimental problem I don't care a whit, except as it weakens your nerve. Before you went out, that night, I asked you if you could kill the man you loved, if the Cause required it. Can you make the same answer now?"

"I can—you know I can! But it must be soon. For God's sake, let the thing come quickly!"

"How can I be sure?" he insisted. "You are, emotionally, in a state of unstable equilibrium. It is too much to ask of a woman. Your heart must revolt!"

"Can't you see," she cried, "that I have gone too far, now, to recede? Had I known, that night, who Lord Felvex was, I might have wavered for a moment, though I would have tried my best. But now, when I have once failed after having accepted the errand, how can I give it up till it is accomplished? How can I ever face myself till I have proved myself worthy of this sacrifice? How can I now prefer my own personal happiness to the good of the Cause? I must trust to your judgment that no other victim will serve, but I beg you to try me. Most of all, most potent and paramount of all reasons—I have confessed my love to Lord Felvex!"

"What? You have spoken to him of this?"

"I have spoken. In fact, I have agreed to leave his house within a week. For that reason alone it must be done soon. Can't it be done tonight?"

"What mischief else have you done, with your damned emotions?" he asked bitterly. "A week, you said? Well, I hope that will suffice. But it is not all so easy as you think. I am afraid of the Circle. Much has happened since you left, and I am very anxious and uncertain.

"For a month—ever since the affair in Westchester Square—the Circle has been in a bad state. O'Brien has made a lot of trouble. You have been suspected, and your loyalty has now been directly impeached. It has been all I could do to hold the members under my control. And it is more than ever before necessary to hold them. We are not nearly so strong as we were. We are obtaining no new recruits, while the foreign sections are holding their own, and more. I cannot afford to go against the opinions of the majority now, for we are near a crisis. I must play them as one plays children to hold the Circle together, or there will be a split and O'Brien will lead a seceding party that will hurt us a good deal with its indiscretion. I have had my finger on the pulse of this affair, and I know to a dot just how far I can go. Previously, I have swayed them, and I have convinced the majority that we must adopt Fabian tactics, awaiting the proper time to strike. But I have carried the policy of 'masterly inactivity' as far as it will go, and luckily, there is no necessity of delaying matters much longer.

"But now, Irma Strieb has threatened the whole situation with her damnable jealousy of you. I understand it now, and I don't see why I didn't notice it before. She should never have been sent to Lord Felvex's house, and least of all as a servant. She is dangerous. She has only hinted before, but now she knows your relations with Felvex, and she has joined O'Brien to explode the information in the Circle, and if she does, it may blow me up with you. I can't force them any longer—they must be managed. My own influence is tottering, but if I can only hold them for two days I'll have no trouble in regaining all my power, and more."

"But why have you delayed so long, Mangus?" Nomé asked. "It seems to me that you should have struck long ago. If we made our demonstration, the general danger would hold the Circle together, wouldn't it?"

Mangus spoke in a lower key.

"I must confide in you," he said. "I can't play my hand alone any longer. The situation is critical. You must know, from what Belle Spiritan told you, that we are involved in larger issues than the mere assassination of one man who happens to have been our enemy, though that is all O'Brien believes, or cares. For two years I have been consolidating the foreign sections until we can act together along a single line of attack, rationally and vigorously, in a truly international movement. I have spent the best part of my life preparing for this. Joined with me, now, in a secret coalition, are the chiefs of every foreign section, and they are in constant communication with me through a central operator under my orders at Berne. He acts as a bureau of information and direction, but the key to the whole situation is in my hand. My will is supreme in the international committee, but I shall lose all influence if I cannot hold my own section."

"Why not tell the Circle?" asked Nomé.

"It would be too dangerous," he replied. "This action is too important. One can never be sure there are no spies in our camp. It was for that reason I dared not tell them, last month, just what work was planned for you. Of course they know now. But if word leaked out, every foreign section would be in danger, and most of the members on the Continent are marked men. Such news has leaked out before, and now we are closely watched. A year ago we perfected all the details for an international demonstration. Every section was pledged to act in unison on a certain day. The time was set, the agents selected, the victims were chosen. Every single attempt failed!"

"Then Lord Felvex's death was no part of such a plot?" Nomé asked.

"Not then, for the thing seemed impossible. Matters have been adjusted since. Now I am only awaiting news from Berne that every section is ready, and that the day is set. Each section, however, except for the heads, believes its own act to be independent. But I need not tell you of the enormous effect of several simultaneous and successful strokes all over Europe!"

Nomé had listened, fascinated by the details of the plot as it was unrolled before her, rising to the romance of the conspiracy with the eager interest of a child.

"This is war!" she exclaimed. "You have said enough to steady me, even if I had weakened. This is what I have longed for! It is glorious! I am sorry that I have been so querulous, while you have been doing the work of a Titan. I am ready, and I claim my privilege to give my life to this magnificent stroke. To think that the success of it should be endangered by malice and envy, just now, when we should be most strongly united, is dreadful."

"You see my position," said Mangus. "I must have a sure hand. The last attempt was made partially to satisfy O'Brien and his party, who were clamoring for action. I dared not explain why I wanted to wait. Now we can strike, and we shall strike hard; we shall strike again and again while there is one of us left—till we have forced Humanity to recognize what we stand for."

"How far has O'Brien gone?" Nomé asked. "Can't you convince him that I have delayed only by your orders?"

"I have handled O'Brien well enough so far—it is Irma Strieb who is making mischief now. The two of them are hatching some scheme, and I dare not oppose them too far. It may be that they will compel a new casting of lots, thinking that you are not to be trusted. If you could only convince them that you are, that you can and will do this thing, it would be far better than for me to exert my authority. Perhaps you might carry them with you—you have never failed before—if they would give you a chance to talk."

"Let me try! I must do this thing. If I do not, it spells ruin for me. If I am discountenanced by the Circle I have nothing left to live for. I have cast my lot irrevocably with the Cause—I cannot go to Lord Felvex now, I cannot go back to my old place at home."

"Listen!" said Mangus. "The Circle meets this evening. You will find them on the offensive, a majority, no doubt, against you. But you might try to conciliate them. That is the reason I sent for you. The time is so near now, that I cannot risk any uncertainty or quarreling. What the Circle decides, I must accept. We may have word from Berne at any moment, and that moment we must strike. Can you come tonight? We meet at seven o'clock."

"I will come," Nomé answered. "I left word that I would be at home for dinner, but I can explain that. I think I can stay away till ten safely enough, without causing any alarm. But Lady Felvex receives tonight, and I must be there, as she has invited several friends to meet me."

"Yes, I know," said Mangus. "Belle Spiritan will be there. Any word to you I need to send, later in the evening, I can get to her. Now you must dine alone. I dare not go with you, for the police are very active nowadays. And the moment the blow falls London will be alive with detectives. We have given up our headquarters in Bloomsbury, and we are meeting in the King's Road. I'll give you directions for finding the place."

IX

Off the King's Road, in Chelsea, between the "Seven Bells" and the Vestry Hall, stands a two-story brick building, decorated in the Georgian style. It is ornate, considering its original use as a brass-foundry. A huge iron gate supported by massive stone posts shuts it off from the street, and passing through this, one goes up a sort of lane, between brick walls, to the imposing front. This approach is vulgarized by rows of terra-cotta chimney-pots, for the storage of which the building is now used, and permits one to get close enough to the facade of the edifice to examine its sadly damaged details. In the cellar of this place, several compartments of which were at this time used for wine-vaults, the Circle met.

There is another less conspicuous entrance to the cellars, however, and to this Nomé was directed. Corrington street leads off the King's Road, and before, in its wanderings, it regains that thoroughfare it turns two right angles, both toward the left. A little bun-shop upon the first part of this passage had been rented by Mangus, and opposite the rear door of the property one found a side entrance to the drain-pipe works.

Nomé, at about seven o'clock, entered the shop and saw a familiar figure sitting behind the counter, one of the women of the Circle. A nod was given and exchanged, and, without a word being spoken, Nomé was directed by a gesture through a tiny bed-sitting-room to the rear door. She opened this, took three or four steps across a paved close, and opened the great door of the works.

She found herself in a square, bare, lofty anteroom, facing a huge pair of double doors. At her left was a wooden hatchway covering a stair leading downward. Upon the solid framework of this Ospovat was waiting.

He came to her and kissed her hand.

"Oh, Nomé, I'm so glad you came!" he said. "I was so afraid you would not be able to get here. Things have gone far, but I know you can make them believe in you."

"I shall try. Have they all come?"

"O'Brien and Mangus and Irma Strieb you may be sure are here early, and about a dozen have come. It is not seven yet."

"What is the need of this extra precaution? Is there any new danger?"

"Mangus has been watched, and O'Brien, too. A week ago Frisk was arrested and has been held, though they have no evidence. We can't be too careful, for there'll be a hue and cry as soon as anything is done. I am terribly afraid that my call on you may have aroused suspicion, but I don't know whether the police have marked me or not."

He lifted the heavy wooden doors and led the way down the steep stairway along a short passage lighted by a single candle set in a saucer. Turning a corner to the right, they found themselves in a wide cellar, two walls of which were lined with rows of casks piled high to the ceiling, festooned with cobwebs. A small table stood on the dirt floor. Upon it was a lamp whose rays shone upon the faces of Mangus and O'Brien seated together in earnest conversation. The old leader's brows were drawn tensely, tracing a web of lines across his forehead and about his deep-set eyes. The Fenian's red countenance, loose lip and watery eyes gave him more the appearance of a bull than usual. Sitting and standing in groups other members were waiting for the rest of the Circle to appear.

Ospovat retraced his steps to stand guard at the head of the stairs, and Nomé walked into the room. Irma Strieb's gaze was fixed upon her, like a waiting bayonet.

O'Brien drew back as Nomé approached him and extended her hand.

"Is it as bad as that, O'Brien?" she asked calmly.

"Faith, that's for you to tell us," he replied.

"I have nothing to tell you that you shouldn't know already. When I give my friendship I do not take it away at the whim, like you!"

"What you gave was a soap-bubble, I fear, girl, and a breath of high life has broke it entirely."

"You do me wrong, O'Brien, and you know it I You have a quick, Irish temper, and it will turn again when you know me better."

"I know too much now. I could stand no more, even if you were my own daughter, as I liked to think you, Nomé!"

Mangus interrupted. "No more of this, now! We're not here to snarl over personal quarrels, like children. God! Was there ever a cause so holy that it did not break up into factions because of jealous bickerings? We'll have you say what you have to say when we are all here, O'Brien, and then Nomé can answer as she likes. Leave us a minute, please, I want to talk to her."

O'Brien turned away to join Irma Strieb and stood with a knot of their friends in one corner of the room, and Nomé sat down at the table wearily.

"O'Brien is in an ugly mood," Mangus said in a low tone. "You may have a hard time winning him over, but I trust you to do it. Irma Strieb is more dangerous. She's capable of anything. I shall have her watched after tonight. When I think of the trouble they are making now when all should go smoothly, I think I'd not hesitate to use force, if necessary. But I can't show my hand to anyone but you yet. God! if I had but tools to work with, I could start a revolution tomorrow!"

"Have you any news?"

"Things are going well. Berne is only waiting for word from Vienna and Madrid. The train is all set, and the match ready. That's why this trouble exasperates me. We must win this time! I'll make any sacrifice in order not to fail. I'll not hesitate to sacrifice you, if necessary!"

There were still many of the Circle who were willing to welcome Nomé, for the disaffection, centering in O'Brien and Irma Strieb, weakened as it radiated through the group. Half a dozen or more shook her hand, called her "comrade" and fell again under the spell of her personal magnetism and earnestness. These had not known, when she was selected for the hazard of the dice, just what the business in hand was—for all that had been left to Mangus—but, as the event had turned out, the work she had had to do was, of course, discovered. It was no longer a secret that Lord Felvex had been marked for death, and that the deed was still to be done. The consciousness of this fatal mission now with them made the talk more open, for they all shared a common risk. Their eagerness for immediate action was the result of this nervous strain, and the long delay imposed by Mangus had aroused great dissatisfaction.

The numbers increased till, at a quarter-past seven, some twenty persons were present, the women being greatly in the minority. The meetings were always informal, controlled by Mangus's peremptory influence, the definite business of detail being managed by a small committee selected by him. He now called the assembly to order in form.

There was but the single lamp on the table in the centre of the room, and this shone full on the leader's face. The members sat or stood in front of him and at the sides of the cellar. From the entrance at the end of the passage the scene was as if set upon a stage, the back wall of which was formed of the tiers of wine casks, like an enormous honeycomb. Away from the light all was shadowy and ill defined, where arched openings in the walls led to dark caves to the right and left.

Mangus rose and began:

"We have come here tonight, comrades, for but one purpose, and that must be settled as quickly as possible. It should not take long. I have sent for Comrade Nomé Destin, that she may speak for herself in answer to any charge that may be formally brought against her. I must warn you all that we are approaching a crisis in the affairs of the Movement, and we are one and all in serious danger. To increase that peril by petty strife and revenge may be fatal to the Cause. Comrades have, before this, been taken from us, and we are waging a war that must claim its victims from our side as well as from our enemies.

"So far, in our meetings, we have avoided mentioning any specific objects, and you have left to me the planning and execution of them. Tonight that object must be named. Our present purpose is murder. So men call it, and, though we believe we are using it to noble ends, the one crime binds us together with the same guilt. Our last attempt was frustrated by chance——"

"By cowardice, why don't ye say!" O'Brien burst in.

"But the same chance will render a second attempt, if successful, more useful to the Cause than if the first had succeeded. I cannot and will not explain the precise causes of my delay in ordering a second trial. You must trust me there, implicitly. It is enough to say that it is necessary to wait a certain time, and when that time has come, everything you have grumbled at will be made clear. Nomé Destin was chosen for the assassination, and, by your rule, she should still stand ready to carry out the mission. Has anyone any objection to this?"

O'Brien arose, wiping the sweat from his brow. Nomé, sitting beside Mangus, watched the Irishman, with her hand on her heart.

"I protest!" said O'Brien, and laid a ponderous fist upon the table. "Nomé Destin is proven a traitor to this Cause. She was reared in the lap of luxury, and she has returned to her kind. She is no more one of us in spirit or in deed. She has fallen into the trap set by scheming and effete aristocrats, and she has accepted the pomp and extravagance of the privileged leisure classes as the station to which her birth entitled her—she has made friends with the Philistines and the Amorites——"

Mangus leaned forward past the lamp and pointed a bony finger at the loud-mouthed Fenian.

"Drop that hackneyed whine, for God's sake, O'Brien! Do you think you are addressing a public-house audience of drunken loafers and cab-drivers? Are you on the tail of a cart contesting a bye-election for a demagogue like yourself? Man, we're talking of red, bloody murder, and we're hunted by the police at this moment! And you slaver cheap rhetoric at us like a board-school graduate! Come out with what you have to say, and don't gabble at the gallery like a fool!"

O'Brien, who was working himself up to the proper pitch, was for a moment disconcerted. Then he broke out afresh, in full brogue:

"And did yez see her a-ridin' forth in a foine chariot with his bloody lordship, if ye plaze? Did yez see her at dinner atin' off thim gold plates wid the man she was sint for to kill?"

"My orders!" snapped Mangus. "My orders were for her to wait, and to wait, and always to wait, and to watch while she waited. What would you have her do?—sulk and brood, or talk of the Movement to its sworn enemy, as no doubt you would have done with your waggling Irish tongue that can't sit still in your mouth, and lose all in an afternoon? She has no need to answer such gammon!"

"And how about the shootin', thin?" O'Brien growled. "Was she sint forth to do a minister of police to death, or to pot-hunt for men who have been forced by that same blackguard out of the chance to make an honest livin'? And was it to save his wretched pifflin' life she was sint out for—him who has jailed her own comrades of the Cause, and will have half of us swingin' on the gallows yet, by God? Did yez order that, too, you who are secret chief, and give your orders and have your own favorites?"

"She shot at him and missed. Ospovat saw her—you heard his story!" Mangus hazarded, hoping that, to save the point, Nomé would keep silent on this detail. But she would not. She sprang to her feet.

"It's a lie! I did not. I shot at the robbers deliberately! Do you think I would shelter myself behind an excuse like that? I saw Lord Felvex being beaten to death by thugs, and how could the Cause profit by a massacre like that! Have we no dignity? Was it merely his death we wanted? The deed was to ring out like a trumpet call in solemn warning, not squeak out its little message like a penny whistle! My hands were to be steeped in blood, but not soiled by mud and filth!"

"Then have in Ospovat, too!" O'Brien shouted. "What did he lie to us for? I say there's a nest of treachery here, and we might as well clean it out now. Have him in!"

Mangus tried his best to quell the rising tumult, but O'Brien's backing encouraged him. Mangus turned to Irma Strieb.

"Irma, take Ospovat's place at the door!" he commanded.

"I shall not," she answered, "not till I have spoken, too. I can tell you something of Ospovat, and of Nomé Destin as well, and of the two together and Lord Felvex thrown into the bargain!"

"Tell it out! Tell it out, thin; faith, it's high time for a few words of truth!" cried O'Brien.

The storm broke on Irma's face as she pointed to Nomé. "You have done the fine lady long enough!" she barked in her rage. "I was only fit to be your servant, was I? You have worn the jewels and the kid gloves ever since you came into the Movement to bedevil this Circle with your sheep's eyes, and ever since you came in I've had all the scrapings and the sour swill! You are the queen and I am the drudge. But what work there is for me to do, I do it, while you sit in silks and satins in the drawing-room and make love to your Lord Felvex, under her ladyship's own eyes! Yes, and boast of it! I heard it from your own lips, and Ospovat won't dare say I lie."

She turned from Nomé to the members, who listened breathlessly. "What do you think of this, comrades? Will you intrust the work of the Cause to a hussy who lives in idleness and luxury while we are hunted from pillar to post by the police? And meanwhile, she sweetens her time with the love and kisses of our worst enemy! Ask her, and see if she denies it! She will never kill that man!"

She sat down and watched for Nomé to answer, her strong yellow teeth showing through the rift between her lips, her red brows lowered, and her coarse hands clenched.

Nomé's breath was coming and going in anger, and her eyes blazed. She rose now, and faced the little assembly. Even in that moment, however, she could not forbear to place herself so that the lamplight should strike her to advantage.

"There is nothing I need to answer, except Irma's last words," she said. "She said that I would never kill Lord Felvex, and she spoke falsely. It is too late for me to mask myself and conceal the things that I hoped with all modesty to keep from you. Since I must think no more of my pride, let me say that it is true that I do love Lord Felvex—I have loved him for four years! I did not know that it was he whom I was appointed to kill—but it would not have mattered, as it does not matter now. I will not answer as to my life at Lady Felvex's house—Irma's insinuations are beneath contempt, and you, who know what I am, will only be sorry for her, that she has sunk so low as to accuse me. But now I claim my privilege of carrying out my appointed errand. I have had my Calvary, let me win my resurrection, my Easter! I have had enough of this pitiful thing called Life—give me that precious, mysterious gift called Death! I am sworn to the Cause—there can be no life left for me, if I am convicted of treason. Do you think that I, who stood ready to sacrifice my life, cannot sacrifice my love also? I will give his life with mine—there is no other way! It is my right—I was appointed by Fate. What if another victim were chosen to die in my place? Still my lover must die, and if he must go, let me at least go with him. Why not? Are we not all pledged to sacrifice and agony? Would not any one of you do it, were you in my place? We claim no personal feelings here, in this Circle, and I believe that each one of us here is true. O'Brien, Irma, I bear no malice toward you. I believe your attack was caused only by your desire for the good of our Cause. I have nothing to forgive. Only, let me do this thing—let me give myself and all I possess to the Cause! The balm of Time, the wrappings of Distance, all have been torn from my heart's wound. I bleed, and the old familiar love-pain and mortal anguish have returned. I, who have been so long dead, am alive again, and I pray to be sent back into forgetfulness. But, if I am perishable, let me perish resisting—if the void awaits me, do not let me act so as to deserve it! I have a giant in me that is stronger than this pigmy of Love who so torments me. Though I thrill as the sap to spring, I would think, not feel. There is another Order, greater than this disorder in my heart, and I would bear it witness. Believe in me, comrades, as you have believed before, trust me, and let me go to eternal peace!"

She sat down, quivering with the passion of her grief, and let her face fall in her hands. O'Brien, mercurial, susceptible as ever to her fascinating, intense temperament, pushed up to her and laid his great hairy hand upon her shoulder.

"Mavourneen," he whispered, sobbing, "forgive me, and let me love you again!"

Others swarmed up to her and protested their allegiance. She had carried the Circle with her, as she had always carried it, with her silvery tongue and the picturesque abandon of her emotion. But Irma Strieb held herself still aloof, with a sneer curling her face.

"How about Ospovat, then, who tried to fool us with his cock-and-bull story?" she said, in a raucous tone.

"Go and send him down!" said Mangus. "Take his place at the door and wait there. You have done enough mischief here!"

She left, sullenly, and all breathed freer with the withdrawal of her spite.

For awhile Nomé was the centre of a group of comrades, each one of which was anxious of having a farewell word with her. She gave ail the color there was to the Circle, for the others were, compared with her, uninspired. Nevertheless, they were all in solemn earnest, determined, tragic, desperate. Upon the dull red heat of their convictions Nomé's emotional fervor danced like a lambent flame, lighting their assemblies with flickering poetic lights. All eyes followed her, all ears listened, she was illumination to their dull, starved hearts, embittered with the wrongs they sought to remedy.

She feasted on this new, last banquet of admiration, and drank deep of the wine of praise so loyally held to her lips, till Mangus, drawing her apart for his last instructions, left the members grouped about the table.

"Nomé," he said in a low voice, "all's not right yet! Irma has set me thinking. I'm not sure of her. She must be watched. If anything should go wrong now, God help the Cause—for we can't. Now I daren't trust you with her again—I'm afraid of her jealousy. Don't go up the stairway you came in by; there's a door out of that cellar over there, that leads up to the front of the building. Here's a key to the outside door. Take it and, when you can slip out unobserved, make haste. I'll talk to them so they won't notice you. And remember the word, 'It is only one of many'—and shoot to kill! No fumbling! Everything is staked on your nerve. Good-bye, girl, and Heaven bless you!"

He turned to the group about the table, leaving Nomé in the shadow of the wall.

Irma Strieb made her way to the passage, up the steep wooden stairs, and knocked upon the double doors that ceiled the opening above her head. Ospovat lifted them, and gave a hand to help her up.

"Go down to your bread-and-butter-faced mistress," she said. "She's bewitched them again. I'm glad to be out of sight of the fools down there. They're led about by the nose like cattle. I'm to stay at the door here."

He was in no mood to talk to her. He was burning for a sight of Nomé, again triumphant, and eager to rejoice in her victory. He handed Irma the padlock and key, and ran down. At the second step he tripped, lost his balance, and, without a cry, fell over the side of the steps, striking his head upon the paved floor below. As he dropped he threw himself toward the wall. This carried him to the left of the foot of the stair, where he lay unconscious.

Irma, meanwhile, had gone to the outer door, looking down the little lane. For a moment she waited, filled with black thoughts, and the jeering expression on her face changed to something more sinister. She hesitated, took a step toward the hatchway and stood undecided. Then, raising the doors part way, she bent her head down to listen. A subdued babble of voices came to her, and through it she heard Nomé speaking. She pressed her lips together and nodded her head. Then, dropping the door, she went out of the building, into the lane, and walked down the King's Road toward Sloane street.

In ten minutes she was back, and the thing was done. She had enough to think of now to make her brain reel, but in her agony she tried to keep her mind upon Nomé-Nomé, who had beaten her at every point—who had hoodwinked and fascinated her way to the position of a heroine, never paying for her promises in real endeavor. She listened again at the crack of the doors, and fed her jealous rage upon the ring of Nomé's voice, as it came to her, clear and deep as a bell. How she hated it, and Nomé's beauty! Then the voice stopped. There was a buzzing chorus, then O'Brien spoke and laughed his peal of burly noise. Her lip writhed to think how weak he was, and how easily cajoled.

Then the great side doors swung open, and a police captain entered to her.

"Are they still there?" he whispered.

Irma nodded. Her breath came faster now.

He put his head outside and beckoned. A file of policemen came in, and with them several men in citizen's clothes. The doors were silently lifted, and one after another they crept down into the passage below, and formed for the rush. The captain put out the solitary candle. Then they were lost to Irma's sight, like rats in a hole, and she waited for the attack, her eyes staring into the dark, her breast heaving convulsively.

She heard a muttered command, and the force moved down toward the cellar where a dim glow illuminated them, making them as shadowy and unreal as ghosts. Then, a single cry echoed along the passage and rose to her ears. It was O'Brien's voice ringing with terror—then a shot rang out, the glow faded. A babel of fierce shouts filled the dark.

Irma stepped from the stair, threw the doors down with a bang and snapped the padlock into the hasp, locking in friends and foes. Then she threw herself upon the closed hatchway and put her ear to the crack.

For a long time she listened, and her wonder increased. All, now, was as still as death. She could not understand it. There should be ch a fight below as would make her shudder at her double revenge. She cared not who fell, all was lost for her. Her mind was cast loose from reason and struggled with blind spite and rage. They should all die, comrade and enemy, the Circle with the police, battling to the end.

It was strange, though, that everything was so quiet! She had expected and feared to hear the horrible discord of carnage, shrieks for help, blows and pistol-shots, and, at least, an attempt to batter open the doors. Instead—nothing. It was as if the wine-cellar were empty and all her treachery a hideous nightmare.

Her first fury had abated to a dazed perplexity; she could not think. She could neither escape, nor go for help, nor wait. How could forty men and women be swallowed up and disappear into the dark without a sound? She thought she would go mad unless she found out—if, indeed, she were not mad already.

She wearily unlocked the padlock and heaved open the doors. Her feet seemed to be of lead as she stepped down, stair by stair, like a somnambulist. She had no fear or horror, no terror—only a stupefied wonder at the perversity of her brain. Halfway along the passage she stumbled upon a body that lay across her path and heard it move stealthily, away, without a word or moan. Near the entrance to the cellar she groped about for the candle, struck a match and held the light over her head.

She had one glance—cowering, terrified men everywhere, flattened against the walls, behind, chairs and table, crouching in corners, lying prone and supine upon the dirt floor, friend and foe mingled, shuddering away from one another, doubting horribly, in that darkness, the least sound, the slightest movement. Every man was afraid of every other, fearing to strike lest he should hit a friend, fearing to speak lest he should betray his presence to an enemy. It was a deadlock of horror. The flaring light of her candle picked out the whites of eyes and policemen's buttons and hands held fearfully over shocked faces—all this in one flash she saw.

Then the men started, with a common impulse, breaking for the passage, to escape from the pen. Before she was hurtled aside a violent bolt of fire darted from a corner—there was a deafening report and a sharp sting of pain in her breast.

Irma Strieb fell to the floor, and a crazed, panic-stricken crowd of men rushed over her.

X

"Life is so interesting!" Madame Spiritan was saying. "Isn't human nature just splendid? It's enough for me just to sit and watch people, they're all so different and original, and everyone has their own character and aura and psychic filament-things seeking out for their affinities—do you believe in affinities?—and I never did see why their thought-waves don't get all tangled up—perhaps they do, after all; things are usually in such a dreadful mess, aren't they? It's really a wonder that we get along as well as we do. Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the ceiling just to look down at all these foolish creatures, with suckers, or whatever they are, on my feet. No doubt flies are quite as much absorbed in their own affairs as we are, though, and make love for a business, as they do in society, only they increase and multiply more, and it never occurs to them that we are bothering with taxes and esoteric phenomena and fourth dimensions, whatever that is. Mercy me! I never could see why people wanted to bother themselves about any other kind of a thickness; one's quite enough for me, and when a woman has passed thirty and don't worry about getting fat I'm perfectly convinced she's a fool."

She paused and took up her fan, bending gracefully, to smile with abandoned coquetry at Count Pribdoff. But she did not use her eyes upon the count alone. Her gaze made quick adventures about the room, seeking something and returning to the Russian's face. Even as she raised her eyebrows at him, speeding a languishing phrase, her darting eye would go and come again.

Lady Felvex's rooms had filled, but Nomé had not yet returned. She was eagerly awaited by many who had been promised sight of her, for, though she had ceased to be the nine days' wonder in town, so few persons had seen her that much curiosity was still alive. Tales of her beauty and her charm had magnified the popular interest in her adventure, and, as she easily took a prominent place in Lady Felvex's assemblies, her appearance had always provoked much whispering. One heard her name upon many lips tonight. Lady Felvex was visibly embarrassed in accounting lamely for her guest's absence, and one or two were bold enough to suspect Lord Felvex of being worried, if not alarmed, at her absence. Nomé had not returned home for dinner. Count Pribdoff raised his eyebrows and smiled to Madame Spiritan at the news, and that vivacious lady tapped him on the cheek with her fan.

Host and hostess stood to receive their guests where they could get a clear view of the door, toward which they cast frequent glances.

A stream of visitors entered, paid their respects and lounged away, not unusually to the chattering group where Madame Spiritan entertained a crowd of men with bewildering skill. Following a group of Lady Felvex's friends, toward ten o'clock, a young man, immaculately dressed, smoothly shaven, with quick, alert eyes, entered the door, was announced as "Mr. Brillish," and stood awaiting his chance to speak his word of greeting. Lady Felvex flung a look of inquiry at her husband.

"A man from the office," said the minister. "Pass him over to me with a few words."

The young man approached, and the welcome he received from his hostess was in no respect to be distinguished from that which she had given her own friends. The two exchanged complimentary commonplaces, after which Mr. Brillish stepped up to Lord Felvex. The two, in speaking, gradually edged away from the nearby guests.

"We located the gang tonight, my lord," said Brillish.

"Well?" was the minister's reply.

"Raided this evening at about eight o'clock. We took twelve after a pretty tough fight."

"Who were they?"

"O'Brien, Lasker, Norwell, Hertzberg and Devonwall, and more of that set we had not known, and two women."

The minister pulled at his mustache. Then, smiling across the room at a lady who had playfully shaken her fan at him, he said:

"Who were the women?"

"One was the Strieb woman, who was here. She was shot in the lungs and will die. The other one was unknown to us."

Lord Felvex's voice was well mastered as he asked: "What was she like?"

"Dark, probably Spanish, brown eyes, rather good clothes, intelligent. We hope to find out who she is before morning. She may be the woman Brussels was looking for. But it looks nasty. If I might take the liberty of warning you, my lord, of asking you to take precautions——"

"You may not. This is no surprise to me. How did you find them?"

"That's the curious part. The Strieb woman gave information at the Chelsea station, while she was supposed to be on guard. They were meeting in an old wine-cellar. Twelve men were sent, and as soon as they got down into the cellar, the lights went out and the whole lot were locked in a dark pen. The men were ordered not to shoot unless absolutely necessary, but even if they had not, they would have been afraid of killing one another. Then the Strieb woman came down with a light, thinking it was all over, I fancy, and the captain broke for the door, got his men into the passage, and the rest was easy enough."

"You are sure there was no one of consequence besides O'Brien?"

"No one we know. Mangus must have got out before the row, by some other exit."

"I'm sorry. I must have that man. He's worth more than all the rest put together."

"We are after him tonight."

"See that you get him. That's all?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Won't you stay, Mr. Brillish?" The words were spoken as the company closed in upon the two.

"Thank you, my lord, I must leave immediately."

Both men bowed, and Mr. Brillish withdrew. Lord Felvex took his place at his wife's side.

"I can't think what has become of Nomé," she said. "I am getting alarmed. It is most extraordinary."

"She will come; don't be worried," said Lord Felvex, but his tone was not convinced.

Madame Spiritan, having watched the colloquy between the two men as closely as possible, now moved up to her hosts.

"I trust we shall not be disappointed in meeting Miss Destin tonight," she said cooingly.

"Lord Felvex has just reassured me," said Lady Felvex. "Miss Destin was away for the afternoon and has been detained longer than she expected. She will surely be here before long."

"I am much relieved to hear that," was the reply, and Madame Spiritan sauntered away with the count and renewed her prattle.

She had already received news of the raid, but the details of the affair were unknown to her. She felt herself fairly secure in her position, but she waited anxiously for Nomé's appearance, for it was scarcely to be expected that, with the information now undoubtedly in the hands of the police, the girl was not in grave danger. Madame Spiritan wondered how much the minister already knew. As she masked her doubts and took up her persiflage with Count Pribdoff again. Colonel Grennyngs came into the drawing-room, and, after a few words with Lord and Lady Felvex, trotted up to Madame Spiritan's side.

"How dare you leave so soon. Belle?" he complained. "D'you know I gadded round to your place to bring over that bull pup I promised, you know, and, by Jove, you were gone! Think of your getting away before ten! I was in no end of a rage! He's a beauty, too; all full of points and own grandson of Bultitude Third! And I say, that Céleste of yours is a decent little thing, don't you know! I don't see how you dare keep such a pretty gal with you. Belle!"

"Keep your hands off Céleste," said Count Pribdoff. "I discovered her, you know!"

"If she's discovered by you she's lost!" said the colonel.

"Peaches and cream, peaches and cream," murmured the count.

"And a spoon," added Madame Spiritan.

"And I say, she showed me a box of roses that had just come for you, Belle—I had a mind to bring some over," said Colonel Grennyngs.

"White roses?" Madame Spiritan asked, with a sudden show of interest.

"No, red."

"Pshaw, how silly—of course they were white. You know I never wear red roses."

"But they were red—I know they were red."

"You're quite sure?"

"Positive!"

"As if it mattered!" laughed Count Pribdoff.

"It matters a good deal," asserted Madame Spiritan. "You evidently don't believe in symbolism."

"Ah—one doesn't send white roses to a married woman, of course."

"Nonsense! I didn't mean that."

"Red is for blood," said the colonel eloquently.

"Or for wine," put in Count Pribdoff.

"Also for currant jelly and strawberries—there's a relativity in all vibration," said Madame Spiritan.

"You don't tell me!" replied the colonel. "Now, I suppose that's one of your clever jokes!"

A flutter of whispers interrupted them, and they turned to see Nomé, star-eyed, in black velvet, enter the room with a grace and finished manner that betrayed no hint of the crisis she had just passed. Madame Spiritan's eyes softened a little as she watched the girl, and her hand was clenched nervously.

Lady Felvex came halfway to meet her guest. Nomé was almost breathless with the haste she had made in dressing.

"I am so sorry that I was detained," she said. "I met an old friend and was persuaded to stay for dinner. I hope I haven't caused you any anxiety!"

"I confess that I'm relieved," her hostess replied. "There are several persons waiting to be presented to you, and I didn't want them to be disappointed."

She brought them up to Nomé, and the girl became again the centre of an interested circle. Excitement always stimulated her speech. She was, by this time, keyed up to a high tension by the events of the day and her words came freely. She turned from one to the other, as the discussion became general, and Madame Spiritan's quick perceptions told her, even across the room, that the company, eager for anything new and charmed by the naïveté and enthusiasm of the young American girl, were skilfully drawing her out. It was something more than amusement, if less than serious interest, that she read upon their faces; but any lack of sincerity was so well concealed that Nomé's limited experience in society detected no hypocrisy in it.

Madame Spiritan noticed, too, that Lord Felvex, after a word with his wife, had left the room. The spy, with her message now to deliver, could wait no longer. The word must be passed immediately, for the least delay was dangerous. She approached the group that still surrounded Nomé and awaited her chance. The girl blushed dangerously as she recognized her ally.

"One should not need to know why one saves another's life," Lady Felvex was saying.

"One should know why one refuses to save it, and that's my point," Nomé replied. "Lord Felvex saved a comrade's life with great risk to his own, and obtained a Victoria Cross for doing what was no more than his duty—or what he thought was his duty. I admire and respect him for it, surely, for it was unselfish and brave. It is not often that a man's life flowers into so gallant an act. But none the less was it born of the fetich worship of what he calls honor or duty. Were it a real religion with him would he not use that courage on some more vital conflict than a war of aggrandizement, forced upon his country by an irresponsible ministry? Would he not attempt to save the lives of the thousands of unfortunates by thinking out his principles and acting upon them, instead of accepting this deadly doctrine of laissez faire? There are thousands of lives in London in more deadly peril than was that guardsman in South Africa. It seems to me that some of his duty lies there!"

"It depends upon what you mean by 'duty,' Miss Destin," Lady Felvex answered. "It seems to me that most arguments are merely quarrels over the definitions of things. No doubt if we could agree upon the definitions we would easily find ourselves reconciled in our points of view. We spend our time disputing over words, rather than upon real principles of action."

"But definitions are only the embodiments of principles," Nomé maintained. "There you are quarreling over a word yourself. I believe with you that if we could agree upon definitions we would probably agree on lines of action. But what is all philosophy but an attempt to define the universe?"

"What is your definition of the universe. Miss Destin?" asked one of the gentlemen mischievously.

Nomé, seriously absorbed in the discussion, missed the raillery in his tone, and, thinking only of the stupidity of his misunderstanding, was about to explain her point elaborately when she became aware of the general smile that rippled about her. She blushed at her own sluggish sense of humor, and Count Pribdoff came to her relief with:

"I should say that the universe was a runaway train on a line full of curves, grades and tunnels."

"I consider it a sort of giant reception where we pay exaggerated respect to a host who never appears," remarked Madame Spiritan, as if looking for Lord Felvex.

"I accept the amendment; your definition is better than mine," said the count, smiling.

"It is only one of many," was the enigmatic retort. So trivially was the sentence uttered that it passed for badinage, and the talk went lightly on, but, in speaking, Madame Spiritan looked squarely and seriously at Nomé, taking pains to catch her eye.

The message burst like a bomb in Nomé's mind. Her face again suffused with color, her hand went to her heart with the familiar gesture. Though she made an attempt to disguise her emotion and enter the conversation again, the endeavor was futile; for even had she ever been able to hold her own in the jocose channel into which the talk had turned, the summons she recognized and accepted, that bade her prepare herself for immediate action, startled her more deeply than she had anticipated. There was no escape now, no chance for procrastination and self-regard; the deed must be done! Before, she had gone through a solemn and absorbing preparation, she had had chance to reflect, plan and temporize with the danger; now, to be given the word in the midst of such gay frivolity stunned hen For a moment she could not adjust her mind to the thought that it was come at last.

Nevertheless, she aroused herself, lashing her will to action. It must be done, now! The pistol was upstairs in her chamber—it must be immediately secured. She looked about for Lord Felvex, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then she moved to her hostess's side and waited till she could have word with her alone.

"Will you pardon me if I retire now?" Nomé asked at the first chance. "I am quite fatigued, and utterly unable to talk any more."

"Certainly," Lady Felvex replied. "You do look tired. Try and get a good sleep tonight."

"I would like to speak to Lord Felvex for a few minutes first," Nomé hazarded. "I want to speak to him about some perplexing lousiness, that came up this afternoon."

"I'm so sorry! My husband was called away to his office on important affairs, and he'll not be here till dinner-time tomorrow. He'll be at his office tomorrow morning, however, and you might see him there, if you like."

"Thank you, I may trouble him for a few moments there, as my business is quite urgent. Good night."

On her way out she met Madame Spiritan, who, in the hall, took the girl's hand and pressed it warmly.

"Be brave!" she whispered. "All depends upon you now! I am so sorry you could not come with me, but you to your part of the work and I to mine, and both for the Cause! In case I do not see you again, good-bye, dear! Let me kiss you, Nomé? There—good-bye—I leave for Berne at midnight."

Nomé went up to her room, and for a long time the light shone through the curtains of her windows.

XI

The reception-room at the Ministry of Police was a large apartment, furnished with many tall mirrors. In these, as she waited for the interview, Nomé caught insistent reflections of herself, her slim, gracile figure gowned in dull red and ermine. These she feared to scan. Already the old distrust had come upon her, and at her second crucial moment she was again unready for action, pushing back the thought of it, the instant doing of it, the how of it, the strict alertness of eye and finger that should have absorbed her while she watched for the first pregnant chance to strike swift and hard. The long suspense had done its work of deterioration in her will and brain. She had so long and so often been put off that her heart was cold now, not hot with the fire of enthusiasm. What she had to do was to be accomplished now only by the resolute holding of her mind to its task. There was no buoyancy in her spirit, no martyr's vision of attainment—all that was left in her soul was a sense of the inevitability of the sacrifice, and herself an almost passive instrument in the hands of Fate. The fearful approach of action paralyzed her; she acted mechanically, the prey of little tormenting thoughts, whims and fancies. Every impulse was trivial; her mind reeled.

She walked to the window to escape the disconcerting images of herself, and, looking absent-mindedly across the street, she was surprised and puzzled to see Ospovat approaching the opposite comer. What did it mean? He had escaped, then, from that dreadful scene in the cellar, of which she had heard only the morning's rumors. His head was bandaged—he had been wounded. But why was he here, perpetually following her about like a spaniel? Did he, at last, doubt her; he, the one person who had fed her with constant flattering trust? Or—and the thought alarmed her—was he present to make sure that the work was done, in case she should fail? Perhaps Mangus, still uncertain of her, had sent him to reinforce her attempt. The thought spurred her to anger, and she began to lose some of her self-consciousness. She would show them how a woman could die!

A footman entered, came up to her and announced that the minister was ready to receive her. She followed him a little way down the wide hall, opening a door into Lord Felvex's office. He was there waiting, with his back to a marble fireplace, and came forward with outstretched hand.

She took a step backward and avoided his greeting.

"Wait!" she exclaimed hoarsely; her own voice seemed dreadful to her. "What I have to say will not take long, and I prefer to stand."

He looked at her calmly, and she could not help admiring his equanimity. He was sure of himself—but he was a man. Were all men sure? Even Ospovat, whom she had always counted her inferior, he was sure, too; he was a man—and she had to oppose this man's strength with her woman's weakness, as Mangus had said. These thoughts raced through her mind.

"What can I do for you, Nomé?" said the minister, his eyes never leaving her, watching her slightest movement. He had drawn gradually nearer.

She must be believed in, whatever happened. Her soul demanded the explanation of her hypocrisy. She would tell him, in few words, and then——

"I have come to tell you what I am," she began. "Your kindness has been killing me by inches, and I can't bear to play a false part before you any longer. It is true I saved your life, but you owe me nothing—nothing! I have been made the victim of a romantic episode, a popular, melodramatic heroine, and, after all had happened, I have become your friend again I Why? Because I set out to kill you! Because I tried and failed."

She paused a moment, scarcely daring to look at him. But she saw no surprise in his face, no shock of horror, only a pity that she revolted at. She wondered at his self-control, he, who was so soon to die, while she was unsteady, gasping. "I tried to kill you!" she repeated querulously, disappointed that her words caused no sensation.

"I know it," the minister replied.

"You knew it? How?"

"I have known about it for some time. I have suspected it for a longer time still."

"Thank God for that!" she cried. "Whatever I am, I would not be thought a hypocrite. Yet you made friends with me?"

"Why not? You saved my life, after all." He smiled.

"Don't! don't!" she wailed. "Why did I permit myself to speak to you here? Why do I go on talking now? There's self, self, self! Oh, I have almost spent my force in words now—I know what Mangus meant! What have I to do with pride? Why can't I act?" She spoke in an agony of weakness and shame.

"Nomé dear," he began, and then caught a sudden closing of her lips, a change in her mood. He saw that something had turned in her, rousing her to a despairing resolve.

He stretched out his hand. "Don't, Nomé!" he commanded.

Her face was convulsed, but she paused. "What do you mean?" she said lamely. Even then, for her honor, for her Cause, she knew that she could not withdraw her hand from her muff and fire.

"You have a revolver there," he said, speaking in a measured, deliberate tone. "You have come to shoot me today, as you went before. I know everything, all your secret, and I have been expecting this. But you will not do it. You are too much of a woman, your heart is too true. You cannot believe that a human life must be taken to prove a wild, impossible theory. You have lived in a world of sentiment, and you have consorted with visions. But you are no visionist. You have found the one real truth, your love for me—our love for each other. You have not the courage to deny this one great thing; you have not the courage to shoot me. You are afraid of me, for you know that I am right. If you can, then shoot me now!"

He spoke as if hypnotizing her, almost brutally compelling her will. She yielded, as the sleeper yields, to his will, and could not draw her revolver. She felt her last drop of resolution ebb away. Yet the situation was so hackneyed, so patently melodramatic, that she loathed herself for having allowed it to become possible, for succumbing to a test so threadbare. Was she to be defeated by such claptrap means? His assurance appalled her—he was all man and she all woman, his inferior. She tasted the dregs of bitterest mortification.

Then, her glance wavering, her brain reeling under the strain, she hurried from the room, to shut out the sight of him.

Ospovat was coming up the stairs, white-faced, staring, his mouth open with excitement. She dared not face him, and staggered into the reception-room, sickening at thought of her indecision. Ospovat ran up to her, and found her in a flood of tears.

"Did you do it?" he cried. "I didn't hear the shot! Is he dead? Nomé, Nomé, tell me!" Then, as she refused to answer, his heart broke at the thought of her cowardice.

"My God, Nomé! You haven't failed again, have you? Tell me, Nomé! Ah, never mind, my love! Quick, give me the pistol—I shall save you this time!"

Without stopping for her protest, he wrenched the revolver from her hand, and ran down the hall. Nomé put her hands to her eyes. The next instant two muffled shots rang out. Then almost immediately Ospovat came back, slammed the doors of the reception-room shut, and ran to kneel at her side. He forced the pistol into her trembling hand.

All his excitement was gone now, and though he spoke quickly through his teeth, he was unnaturally deliberate. His voice was as tender and soothing as a mother's to her child.

"It is done, Nomé—he is killed at last! I have saved your honor! No one will know that you didn't do it. No one saw me. I will tell them that you shot him. Quick, now—they are coming! Don't you understand? I have saved you—you shall have all the glory! Take the pistol, for God's sake, and say that you did it!"

There were cries from below, and footsteps were heard running down the hall. Nomé turned deathly pale and ill. Must it always end this way, the man strong and determined, the woman weak and undecided? Little Ospovat had beaten her at the end. Why could she not have risen to his height?

No—but one thing she could do! Ospovat's courage had illumined her at last. It would do no good, but it would be what a man would do, at least. She put the revolver quickly, passionately, to her heart and fired.

Several men rushed into the room and sprang furiously at the little Russian Jew, who was now quivering with horror. With a terrible effort he withdrew his eyes from Nomé's bleeding form upon the floor, and looked haggardly up at them.

Then he gave her back her honor, and his share in the glory of the Cause she had betrayed.

"Yes, take me, take me!" he said. "But she shot him!—this girl here, Nomé Destin, she shot him, and now she has shot herself as well. She did it! Do you understand? I only helped. It was her work. She is the heroine of the Cause! She was wonderful!"

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article  Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.