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reported it was due to distinct mitigation of

the old religious animosities, and the growth of sentiment against

war—both serious factors from our point of view.”

 

“They would be,” commented Tydvil.

 

“Well, I appointed a Royal Commission to enquire. But you know what Royal

Commissions are. They sent in a report of one hundred and thirty-five

thousand volumes. The only value it had was a punishment to Royal

Commissioners from earth. I made them read it. But Judas Iscariot, who

was chairman, sent in a minority report on one sheet of foolscap. I read

it, and that is where I made the blunder.”

 

“I shouldn’t think one sheet of foolscap could offer more than one

hundred and thirty-five thousand volumes report,” commented Tydvil.

 

“You don’t know Judas Iscariot,” answered Nicholas grimly. “Mind you, it

was a magnificent piece of constructive hellishness. I admit that. It was

such a thoroughly damnable idea, that I accepted it without weighing the

consequence to ourselves. It backfired.”

 

“It must have been a nasty piece of work,” Tydvil said sympathetically.

 

“It was,” Nicholas continued. “He planned nothing less than a second

great betrayal. In his preamble he emphasised the necessity for a

doctrine that would not only turn race against race and nation against

nation, but one which would also create internecine strife and inflame

fratricidal hatred.”

 

“A pretty doctrine,” commented Tydvil dryly.

 

“There was more in it than that. The creed had to be, apparently, simple

to gull fools and superficially beneficial to blind wiser men. Aimed at

the destruction of religion, it had to win the support of churchmen—or

some of them. But it had to be strong enough to wreck civilisation in a

tempest of bloodshed.”

 

“Pleasant mind your friend Judas must have.” Tydvil was profoundly

interested.

 

“Yes,” Nicholas admitted, “and he built better than he knew. In half a

dozen lines below the preamble, he set out the doctrine of Communism. And

I—may I be pardoned for it—let him do it.”

 

“So that is how it began.” Tydvil was awestricken.

 

“That is how it began,” Nicholas echoed. “Judas claimed that it needed

his personal attention for propagation, so I let him loose on earth. He

took the name—let me see—the name…” He drew his master card from

his pocket. “Yes, that’s it—the name he took was Karl Marx.”

 

“What! Karl Marx was…” gasped Tydvil.

 

Nicholas nodded. “Judas Iscariot none other. As we expected, the creed

spread like a disease. Look at the state of the world today because of

it. And this is only the beginning.”

 

“But,” Tydvil was puzzled, “isn’t that what Judas and you planned.”

 

“True,” Nicholas sighed, “but we did not foresee the effects on our own

Empire. For years now eighty per cent of our new population has been

Communists, and they are keeping my dominions in a state of turmoil. We

are never exactly peaceful, but our gentlemen have always observed

certain decencies. These fellows don’t recognise any, and are demanding a

republic not that they have any chance of getting it.”

 

Tydvil laughed.

 

“Nothing to laugh at,” said Nicholas a little sourly.

 

“Forgive me,” Tydvil said contritely, “I was merely thinking there was

something of poetic justice in the reaction.”

 

“Nothing poetic in it, believe me,” growled Nicholas. “You see, we have a

very largely Conservative population—the fox hunting and old port type;

to say nothing of a very populous colony of Royalties. You cannot expect

gentlemen to tolerate these fellows. They don’t either,” he added.

 

“Ructions?” asked Tydvil, still amused.

 

“There are, and believe me, civil war in Hell is no joke.” Nicholas spoke

as one with a genuine grievance.

 

“Hard luck.” Tydvil felt that his friend deserved sympathy;

 

“The trouble is, too, that my people are inclined to blame me, and I have

to recognise they have cause for their loss of confidence.” Nicholas

spoke glumly. “Would you believe it! Just before I left home some new

arrival organised a sit-down strike.”

 

“Characteristic,” Tydvil observed.

 

Nicholas nodded. “But I soon settled that. I sent a five million volt

charge through every fire-bar in Hell, and there will never be another

sit-down strike at any rate—for obvious reasons.”

 

“There does not seem to be any remedy for your trouble,” Tydvil said

thoughtfully.

 

“There is,” replied Nicholas decisively, “and I am going to enforce it

the moment I return home. You see, Tydvil, a Communist is not worth

damning even, and I am not going to have them cluttering up Hell and

creating a nuisance. Not only that, but they are going to suffer the

punishment they deserve—and so is Judas Iscariot. He has it coming to

him.”

 

“Is this going to be poetic justice?” Tydvil asked, laughing.

 

“It is,” Nicholas responded. “I am creating a new Dominion to which every

Communist will be transported. In it the Communists will live with all

their Communist doctrines rigidly enforced—and if that will not be a

merry Hell, my name is not Nicholas Senior.”

 

“And Judas Iscariot?” asked Tydvil curiously.

 

“He will be my Viceroy and will administer the doctrines he created.

Don’t think I am vindictive, my friend. It is my duty to administer

impartial justice in my realms, and the fact that Judas is an old and

valued friend is no reason for mitigation of his punishment. Eternity

with Communism is the worst I can think of.”

 

It was Tydvil who broke the silence in which Nicholas sat brooding.

“Look, Nicholas,” he enquired hesitantly, “would there be any objection

to my repeating what you have told me?”

 

Nicholas came out of his reverie. “No—none,” he said after a moment’s

thought. “But it will be too late to do any good. That infernal doctrine

of Iscariot’s has too strong a hold. But tell the story if you like.”

 

“Tell me,” asked Tydvil, “are Parlour Pinks included with the

Communists?”

 

An expression of disgust came into Nicholas’s eyes. He waved his hand

curtly. “I’m not interested,” he said shortly. “A Parlour Pink is a lower

creature than a Communist.”

CHAPTER XXVII

Tydvil had gained his heart’s desire with Edwin Muskat’s nose, but he had

to recognise that his adventure had not improved the standing of Basil

Williams in the community. In reporting the story the morning papers

unanimously demanded the suppression of the now notorious roysterer.

Their criticism of the police for another failure to lay their hands on

him stirred Russell Street to its depths. Several scalp hunting members

of the Opposition ragged the Chief Secretary in the Legislative Assembly

on the way in which his department was mismanaged. Next morning he had a

heart to heart talk with the Commissioner of Police. The Commissioner

left the Ministerial presence with thoughts as red as his close shaven

cheeks.

 

That heart to heart talk, as it filtered down to the lower ranks of the

Metropolitan Police Force, lost nothing of its scathing satire. Each

subordinate as he received it from his immediate chief added to and

embroidered it as an outlet for his own bruised amour propre. By the time

it reached the rank and file, both uniformed and plain-clothed, it had

assumed the proportions of a hurricane of vituperative malediction.

 

Boiled down, however, it amounted to only three words: “Get Basil

Williams!”

 

All this was reported faithfully to Tydvil by an amused Nicholas, who

pointed out that he thought that there was not sufficient room in the

Commonwealth of Australia for both the Commissioner and Basil Williams.

“You know, Tydvil,” he added, “giving good advice is not my forte, though

I indulge in it more often than churchmen would allow. Still, I do think

you would be wise to adopt some less conspicuous individuality. I’ll

admit, of course, that Basil Williams becomes an increasing source of

high enterprise, but you will always be liable to have your amusements

curtailed by a brawl. Besides, there is always the risk of a bullet.”

 

A stubborn expression came into Tydvil’s eyes. “Dash it all, Nicholas,”

he exclaimed, “why should I be driven off the streets? I like Basil

Williams. He has some jolly good friends, too. I’d lose them all as

anyone else.”

 

A slow smile spread from Nicholas’s clean-cut lips. “Cherchez la femme,”

he murmured.

 

“Nothing of the kind, you wicked old ruffian,” Tydvil laughed. “Except

for his relation with the police, Basil Williams is eminently

respectable.”

 

“You may not be aware of it, Tydvil, but that festive young woman named

Elsie, who introduced you to the night life of the city, would be very

sorry, to hear that assertion.”

 

Tydvil looked up sharply. “Nonsense!” he said. “She’s quite a nice girl.”

 

“Much more so than some of her more conventional sisters,” Nicholas

agreed. “But at the present moment the police are using her as bait for

you, my boy.”

 

Tydvil expressed an opinion about the police in terms that he would not

have dreamed of using a few weeks earlier. They were ripe, fruity and

concise. He was sitting at his table and, cupping his face in his hands,

he stared at the wall opposite, his brow wrinkled in concentrated

thought.

 

Nicholas from his armchair sat watching him. Presently the smile he wore

broke into a hearty laugh. “Magnificent, Tydvil! Magnificent! You’re a

credit to me.”

 

The words brought Tydvil erect. “You…?” He broke off, staring at

Nicholas.

 

“Understand? Yes!” Nicholas was still laughing. “I was wondering if you

could find a way out.”

 

“Did I really think of that myself, Nicholas,” he asked, “without your

prompting?”

 

“Word of honour, yes,” Nicholas replied. “I’m proud of you, Tydvil.”

 

“But can it be done?” Mr. Jones asked anxiously.

 

“It can be, and will be,” Nicholas assured him. “How many will you want?”

 

“I think a dozen would be enough,” said Tydvil after a moment’s thought.

 

“Twenty if you like,” Nicholas promised.

 

“Keep them in reserve. If I need more than a dozen I’ll call for them.”

 

“Are you going to be in it yourself?” enquired Nicholas.

 

Tydvil nodded. “The first I think. It should be perfectly safe. You can

send the others along at about three-minute intervals.”

 

“Good,” Nicholas replied, “depend on me.”

 

Tydvil glanced at the clock on his desk. “Nine fifteen,” he said. “I’ll

make straight for the Casino Club. Is Elsie there?” he paused to ask.

 

“Expecting you.”

 

“Right!” Tydvil responded briskly as he stood up. “Keep them away from me

till I get there. They can pick me up at the Casino.”

 

Two minutes later, Basil Williams, with his hat at its usual insolent

angle, was striding along Swanston Street. He had the bearing of a man

who was going places to do things.

 

At nine forty-five all was quiet at the Russell Street Police Station. A

few minutes earlier Inspector Kane had dropped in. Inspector Kane was a

sore man. He knew Basil Williams only by name, but there was no man in

the city whom he disliked more. Inspector Kane had thirty years of

blameless service behind him, and Basil Williams had clouded its

brightness. His sentiments towards Basil Williams at the moment were

positively ferocious, but as he discussed that dissolute ruffian with the

senior constable on duty his voice and bearing were coldly official.

 

The watchhouse at Russell Street can hardly be described as cosy. Those

of my readers who have been arrested will remember that after staggering

up the steps into a cheerless vestibule, they turned down a corridor to

the left, to arrive before the counter of an office at its end. If it was

not their first appearance they, of course, received a more or less

cordial reception from

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