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didn’t know?”
“God help me!” Caithness said. “I didn’t know.” He hadn’t known; he
hadn’t, if it were blameworthy, been to blame; if he were partly
responsible for Considine’s death, it was a noble responsibility, and
he would bear it. Out of evil, God brought forth good. He added, “Then
there’s the less reason to say.”
Yet they did not move. Behind the house, between it and the sea, in
the darkness, armed men sought one another in hate and fear,
abandoning themselves to a passion which their master would have
bidden them use for the sole purpose of interior enlargement and
further victory. Their strength was turned to greed of treasure or
greed of vengeance; the accident which had struck Considine down had
released their too little mastered frenzies. The two strangers
delayed, reluctant alike to go or stay in the stillness. And, while
they delayed, the stillness burst into tumult. There were shots and
voices calling, Mottreux’s voice challenging, a chaos of sound, and
breaking out of it and over it a high terrific shriek.
The shriek terrified them as they stood there; it was a deathcall. It
scattered their disputes and their dogmas, for, whether he who uttered
it was slaying or being slain, it was the cry of an intenser death
than that of an ordinary man. One of those experimenting spirits had
broken into that cry; it swept out to them from the passion of a
nature beyond theirs, and its sound pierced them with fear of death,
of that greater life, and of the greater death in that life. The lord
of the adepts was dead, and enmity was abroad among them as the dead
Zulu had prophesied days before. The cry came to Roger as a blast that
drove him away. Nigel Considine was dead; the treachery he had
despised had taken him; the final dereliction had swallowed him. If he
returned—but Roger fled from that return. His nerve broke; he shrank
back against the car, and said to Caithness, “Let’s go; let’s go.”
The priest himself, trembling, turned. “Shall we-” he began, laying
his hand on the car.
“No, for God’s sake,” Roger exclaimed. “Let’s leave it all, if we’re
leaving it. If it isn’t for us, let’s get away from it. Come; we’ll
get somewhere.”
Caithness silently assented. “But let’s get our coats at least!” he
said. “They’ll be just in there.”
“I’m not going in there again,” Roger said, “unless Considine himself
calls me.”
“Then I will,” Caithness said. He sprang back into the hall, and in a
couple of minutes returned. “We shall want them if we’re walking all
night,” he said, and so, in a mingling of terror and despair, and hope
and the commonplace, they went down to the gates and out into the
darkness beyond. Once the priest said, “Mrs. Ingram’ll be glad to see
you back.”
“Yes,” Roger answered. “Isabel…” and said no more.
Some time next morning, after wandering long on foot and finding at
last in an unknown town a small garage where they hired a car that
took them to Winchester, and coming thence by train to London, they
reached again the house in Kensington, from which less than
forty-eight hours earlier they had been swept away. The streets were
still full of wanderers, though it had been known for hours that
safety had returned, and the wild intrusion been destroyed. The mob by
then had fallen into a waking stupor, not unlike the sleep in which
Rosamond still lay; it moved somnambulistically, and the civil
authorities, by the use of police and military, by commandeering
transport, by supplying food and drink as best they could, managed at
last to control and direct it. Laden motor-buses carried the fugitives
back towards their houses; taxis, lorries, and all other possible
vehicles were put in service for the same purpose. Roger and Caithness
made a slow way by the Tubes, now gradually freeing themselves from
their invasion, to Colindale Square. They came to it shivering in the
bleak noon—as chilled bathers might stumble up a stony beach, while
behind them a deserted and disconsolate sea moaned. Sir Bernard came
hastily to meet them, deserting for the time being the medley of
fugitives who filled his kitchen and overflowed into the other rooms,
and for whom conveyances had not yet been found. Roger nodded to him
but could not speak; he left explanations to Caithness. In a moment
Isabel came also; to her he turned, and with her he shut himself away.
Once safe he said to her with no accent in his voice: “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” she exclaimed. “Roger, my dear!”
He had perhaps never entirely trusted her before, for all their sweet
friendship. But his defences were down, and he lay exposed, terribly
sensitive to her looks and words. She neither sympathized nor
condoled; in the deep practice of her love her heart was struck
equally with his. She suffered his desolation as she had his desire;
the trust of his spiritual necessity with which she had charged
herself knew this union also. He realized at that moment the vast
experience of love which she had undergone, and accepted it. But he
only said with a faint smile, implicitly recognizing her vicarious
grief, “Yet you didn’t believe in him.”
She sat down, wide eyes on his, and ignoring the comment, said in a
hushed voice of awe, “Tell me. Can he be-?”
He told her as clearly as he could, what had happened. And at the end
she said, “But, Roger, mightn’t he…” She couldn’t finish; her own
personal nature fainted before the intensity with which it felt
another’s hope.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “If so…It may be, but I daren’t think
of it. Isabel, Isabel, to think what killed him!”
At that moment Caithness was talking swiftly to Sir Bernard
downstairs. “So, when I went back for our coats, I saw them,” he said;
“they were all ready there, all three packets and I brought them with
me.” He pointed at the table on which three thick envelopes lay which
he had extracted from his coat-pocket. “He must have meant to take
them with him, or else they were directions for the others. They were
on a chest in the hall, waiting till we—till he—came back. Don’t you
think they ought to go to the Prime Minister?”
“I hate telling the Prime Minister anything,” Sir Bernard said. “It’s
like feeding a gorilla without a body; he can’t digest words. I don’t
know which is worse for civilized man, Suydler or Considine.”
“Considine’s dead,” Caithness said.
Sir Bernard lifted a packet distastefully. “I wish I were a
Christian,” he murmured, “then I should feel I ought to. As it is—I
suppose Considine is dead?”
“Of course he is,” Caithness said impatiently. “Mottreux shot him;
I’ve just told you. I’d no notion he wanted the jewels. And even if he
weren’t—Considine, I mean—that would only make it more urgent that
Suydler should have the papers. They may be of use or they mayn’t. But
he ought to have them.”
“They’ll all be in cipher, I should think,” Sir Bernard said, with a
good deal of satisfaction. “Suydler can have a jolly time guessing it.
But I don’t like it, in spite of Mr. Considine’s obscene and
pernicious gospel. I don’t like giving any gospel to Suydler. Yes, all
right, I suppose I must. Portrait of Gallio presenting the manuscript
of the Evangelists to the Missing Link. You’ll have to come too; then
you can tell him all about the house.”
When as a consequence the house by the sea was approached, late the
same day, with great force and much circumspection, the results were a
little disappointing. The body of Inkamasi still lay on its royal
couch, but the body of the master of the adepts had disappeared. No
living person was there; no car in the drive nor submarine in the bay.
But behind the house lay Mottreux, a knife-wound in his throat, and
sprawled over him, a bullet in his chest, the body of a negro, whom
Caithness recognized as one of those that had followed Considine to
the king’s death. Further away lay the Egyptian, also shot. Vereker
and the Arab were not to be found.
But the extent of the catastrophe which the traitor had brought upon
the headship of the cause became clear, as the days passed. Considine
and three of the closest members of his personal staff had been
destroyed, and the great movement was checked. There were no more
messages from the High Executive. What tale reached the various
headquarters of the African armies the European Governments never
knew. But the labouring and anxious generals of their forces began to
telegraph the most cheering news. In one or two districts something
like panic broke out among the enemy, a great noise of wailing and
disorderly firing and then flight. In others the negro forces began to
retire, and as they were pressed by the pursuit gave way and were
overwhelmed.
The papers Caithness had seized, which after a great deal of trouble
were at least partially decoded—only partially; some of them
remained mysteries even to the most ingenious cipher-expert—
contained sufficient allusions in detail to make the task of the
uncovering of Considine’s bases—houses in Europe and headquarters in
Africa—a much easier business than had been feared. An encouraging
but slightly vague account appeared in the Press of how a British
patriot, who preferred his Imperial citizenship to his Zulu
birthright, had shot Considine while being pressed to join him. It was
understood that he had deliberately sacrificed himself in order to
help England, and a good deal of quiet (and not too quiet) pride was
felt that it was an English subject, or at least a Dominion subject,
who had acted so. No Senegalese had done as much, nor the native of
any district administered by other European countries. Such was the
spirit produced by the British occupation. A rather acrimonious
correspondence opened between the British Government and the other
Powers on the subject of Considine’s own nationality. The French,
Italian, Spanish, and Belgian ambassadors presented Notes which
pointed out that the late Nigel Considine being a British subject the
respective Governments had in equity a claim to be indemnified by his
Britannic Majesty’s Government for the expense to which they had been
put. His Britannic Majesty replied through the High Executive of Mr.
Raymond Suydler’s Foreign Minister (the Earl of Basingstoke) to the
effect that there were nine mutually destructive reasons why the claim
should either not be admitted or should be set against still heavier
amounts due to his Britannic Majesty for damage suffered. Mr. Suydler
made a great speech at an Albert Hall Meeting, and was cheered wildly
when he announced that the European Governments had determined to sign
no formal terms of peace with an enemy who had no business to be there
at all, but to hold a conference in Madeira to decide on the future
settlement of Africa, the terms of which would afterwards be submitted
to the League of Nations, thus confirming the passionate belief of the
Powers in democratic control. Mr. Suydler was also loudly applauded in
the course of his witty and brilliant remarks upon the attempts of the
madman who had been responsible for all the trouble to turn his
megalomaniac nonsense into philosophical nonsense. “Guess: what can
you do but guess? We guessed—and we guessed right!” Terrific cheers.
Sir Bernard read it and smiled a little sadly. Philip read it and let
it slip by; he was engaged with a recovered Rosamond and his career.
Roger did not read it. Sir Bernard asked Philip whether, at
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