“You have heard from them again?”
“The briefest of notes,” said Sir Philip lightly.
“And otherwise?”
Sir Philip frowned. “They will keep their promise,” he said shortly, for the ‘otherwise’ of his secretary had sent a coldness into his heart that he could not quite understand.
In the top room in the workshop at Carnaby Street, Thery, subdued, sullen, fearful, sat facing the three. “I want you to quite understand,” said Manfred, “that we bear you no ill-will for what you have done. I think, and Senor Poiccart thinks, that Senor Gonsalez did right to spare your life and bring you back to us.”
Thery dropped his eyes before the half-quizzical smile of the speaker.
“Tomorrow night you will do as you agreed to do — if the necessity still exists. Then you will go — —” he paused.
“Where?” demanded Thery in sudden rage. “Where in the name of Heaven? I have told them my name, they will know who I am — they will find that by writing to the police. Where am I to go?”
He sprang to his feet, glowering on the three men, his hands trembling with rage, his great frame shaking with the intensity of his anger.
“You betrayed yourself,” said Manfred quietly; “that is your punishment. But we will find a place for you, a new Spain under other skies — and the girl at Jerez shall be there waiting for you.”
Thery looked from one to the other suspiciously. Were they laughing at him?
There was no smile on their faces; Gonsalez alone looked at him with keen, inquisitive eyes, as though he saw some hidden meaning in the speech.
“Will you swear that?” asked Thery hoarsely, “will you swear that by the — —”
“I promise that — if you wish it I will swear it,” said Manfred. “And now,” he went on, his voice changing, “you know what is expected of you tomorrow night — what you have to do?”
Thery nodded.
“There must be no hitch — no bungling; you and I and Poiccart and Gonsalez will kill this unjust man in a way that the world will never guess — such an execution as shall appall mankind. A swift death, a sure death, a death that will creep through cracks, that will pass by the guards unnoticed. Why, there never has been such a thing done — such — —” he stopped dead with flushed cheeks and kindling eyes, and met the gaze of his two companions. Poiccart impassive, sphinxlike, Leon interested and analytic. Manfred’s face went a duller red.
“I am sorry,” he said almost humbly; “for the moment I had forgotten the cause, and the end, in the strangeness of the means.”
He raised his hand deprecatingly.
“It is understandable,” said Poiccart gravely, and Leon pressed Manfred’s arm.
The three stood in embarrassed silence for a moment, then Manfred laughed.
“To work!” he said, and led the way to the improvised laboratory.
Inside Thery took off his coat. Here was his province, and from being the cowed dependant he took charge of the party, directing them, instructing, commanding, until he had the men of whom, a few minutes before, he had stood in terror running from studio to laboratory, from floor to floor.
There was much to be done, much testing, much calculating, many little sums to be worked out on paper, for in the killing of Sir Philip Ramon all the resources of modern science were to be pressed into the service of the Four.
“I am going to survey the land,” said Manfred suddenly, and disappearing into the studio returned with a pair of step-ladders. These he straddled in the dark passage, and mounting quickly pushed up a trapdoor that led to the flat roof of the building.
He pulled himself up carefully, crawled along the leaden surface, and raising himself cautiously looked over the low parapet.
He was in the centre of a half mile circle of uneven roofs. Beyond the circumference of his horizon London loomed murkily through smoke and mist. Below was a busy street. He took a hasty survey of the roof with its chimney stacks, its unornamental telegraph pole, its leaden floor and rusty guttering; then, through a pair of field-glasses, made a long, careful survey southward. He crawled slowly back to the trapdoor, raised it, and let himself down very gingerly till his feet touched the top of the ladder. Then he descended rapidly, closing the door after him.
“Well?” asked Thery with something of triumph in his voice.
“I see you have labelled it,” said Manfred.
“It is better so — since we shall work in the dark,” said Thery.
“Did you see then —— ?” began Poiccart.
Manfred nodded.
“Very indistinctly — one could just see the Houses of Parliament dimly, and Downing Street is a jumble of roofs.”
Thery had turned to the work that was engaging his attention. Whatever was his trade he was a deft workman. Somehow he felt that he must do his best for these men. He had been made forcibly aware of their superiority in the last days, he had now an ambition to assert his own skill, his individuality, and to earn commendation from these men who had made him feel his littleness.
Manfred and the others stood aside and watched him in silence. Leon, with a perplexed frown, kept his eyes fixed on the workman’s face. For Leon Gonsalez, scientist, physiognomist (his translation of the Theologi Physiognomia Humana of Lequetius is regarded today as the finest), was endeavouring to reconcile the criminal with the artisan.
After a while Thery finished.
“All is now ready,” he said with a grin of satisfaction: “let me find your Minister of State, give me a minute’s speech with him, and the next minute he dies.”
His face, repulsive in repose, was now demoniacal. He was like some great bull from his own country made more terrible with the snuffle of blood in his nostrils.
In strange contrast were the faces of his employers. Not a muscle of either face stirred. There was neither exultation nor remorse in their expressions — only a curious something that creeps into the set face of the judge as he pronounces the dread sentence of the law. Thery saw that something, and it froze him to his very marrow.
He threw up his hands as if to ward them off.
“Stop! stop!” he shouted; “don’t look like that, in the name of God — don’t, don’t!” He covered his face with shaking hands.
“Like what, Thery?” asked Leon softly.
Thery shook his head.
“I cannot say — like the judge at Granada when he says — when he says, ‘Let the thing be done!’”
“If we look so,” said Manfred harshly, “it is because we are judges — and not alone judges but executioners of our judgment.”
“I thought you would have been pleased,” whimpered Thery.
“You have done well,” said Manfred gravely.
“Bueno, bueno!” echoed the others.
“Pray God that we are successful,” added Manfred solemnly, and Thery stared at this strange man in amazement.
Superintendent Falmouth reported to the Commissioner that afternoon that all arrangements were now complete for the protection of the threatened Minister.
“I’ve filled up 44 Downing Street,” he said; “there’s practically a man in every room. I’ve got four of our best men on the roof, men in the basement, men in the kitchens.”
“What