MANY years ago the fear of dynamite stalked through the land. An immense organisation of anarchists whose headquarters were in the United States had arranged for a number of simultaneous displays in London, Glasgow, and Quebec. As is well known now, the Parliament House at Quebec and the gasworks at Glasgow were to be blown up, while the programme for London included Scotland Yard, most of Whitehall, the House of Commons, the Tower, and four great railway stations thrown in.

This plot was laid bare, stopped, and made public, and—except a number of people who happened quite innocently to carry black bags—no one was put to the slightest inconvenience.

The dynamite scare was deemed to be at an end. But the dread organisation was in fact still active, as the sixty policemen who were injured in what is called the “Haymarket Massacre” explosion at Chicago, on May 4, 1886, have dire occasion to know.Everyone who reads the papers is familiar with the details of the Haymarket Massacre. Few people, however, are aware that a far more dastardly outrage had been planned to intimidate London a few days later. Through the agency of a courageous woman this affair too was unmasked in its turn, but for commercial and other reasons it was kept from the general public.

The scheme was to blow up the Opera House at Covent Garden on the first night of the season. Had the facts got abroad, the audience would probably have been somewhat sparse on that occasion; but the facts did not get abroad, and the house was crowded in every part; for the famous prima donna Louise Vesea (since retired) was singing “Marguerite,” in “Faust,” and enthusiasm about her was such that though the popular tenor had unaccountably thrown up his engagement, the price of stalls rose to thirty-three shillings. The police were sure of themselves, and the evening passed off with nothing more explosive than applause. Nevertheless, that night, after the curtain had fallen and Louise Vesea had gathered up all the wreaths and other tributes of admiration which had been showered upon her, there happened the singular incident which it is our purpose to record.

Vesea, wrapped in rich furs—it was midnight, and our usual wintry May—was just leaving the stage door for her carriage, when a gentleman respectfully accosted her. He was an English detective on special service, and Vesea appeared to know him.

“It will be desirable for you to run no risks, Madame,” he said. “So far as we know all the principals have left the country in alarm, but there are always others.”

Vesea smiled. She was then over thirty, in the full flower of her fame and beauty. Tall, dark, calm, mysterious, she had the firm yet gentle look of one who keeps a kind heart under the regal manner induced by universal adoration.

“What have I to fear?” she said.

“Vengeance,” the detective answered simply. “I have arranged to have you shadowed, in case——”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” she said. “The idea is intolerable to me. I am not afraid.”

The detective argued, but in vain.

“It shall be as you wish, Madame,” he said, ultimately.

Vesea got into her carriage, and was driven away. The pair of chestnuts travelled at a brisk trot through the dark deserted streets of Soho towards the West End. The carriage had crossed Regent Street and was just entering Berkeley Square when a hansom, coming at a gallop along Struton Street on the wrong side of the road, collided violently with Vesea’s horses at the corner. At the same moment another carriage, a brougham, came up and stopped. A gentleman jumped out, and assisted in disengaging Vesea’s coachman and footman from the medley of harness and horse-flesh. This done, he spoke to Vesea, who, uninjured, was standing on the footpath.

“One of your chestnuts will have to be shot,” he said, raising his hat. “May I place my own carriage at your disposal?”

Vesea thankfully accepted his offer.

“Where to?” he inquired.

“Upper Brook Street,” she answered. “But you are sure I do not inconvenience you?”

“Curiously enough,” he said, “I live in Upper Brook Street myself, and if I may accompany you——”

“You are more than kind,” she said, and they both entered the brougham, the gentleman having first thoughtfully taken the number of the peccant cabby, and given some valuable advice to Vesea’s coachman.

The brougham disappeared at a terrific pace. But it never went within half a mile of Upper Brook Street. It turned abruptly to the north, crossed Oxford Street, and stopped in front of a large house in a remote street near Paddington Station. At the same instant the door of the house opened, and a man ran down to the carriage. In a moment Vesea, with a cloth wrapped round her head, was carried struggling into the house, and the brougham departed. The thing was done as quickly and silently as in a dream.

The cloth was removed at length, and Vesea found herself in a long bare room, furnished only with chairs and a table. She realised that the carriage accident was merely part of a plot to capture her without fuss and violence. She was incapable of fear, but she was extremely annoyed and indignant. She looked round for the man who enticed her into his brougham. He was not to be seen; his share of the matter was over. Two other men sat at the table. Vesea stared at them in speechless anger. As to them, they seemed to ignore her.

“Where is the Chief?” said one to the other.

“He will be here in three minutes. We are to proceed with the examination; time is short.”

Then the two men turned to Vesea, and the elder spoke.

“You will be anxious to know why you are here,” he said.

She gazed at him scornfully, and he continued:

“You are here because you have betrayed the anarchist cause.”

“I am not an anarchist,” she said coldly.

“Admitted. But a week ago a member of our society gave you a warning to keep away from the Opera House to-night. In so warning you he was false to his oath——”

“Do you refer to Salti, the tenor?” she asked.

“I do. You perceive we have adherents in high places. Salti, then, warned you—and you instantly told the police. That was your idea of gratitude. Did Salti love you?”

“I decline to be cross-examined.”

“It is immaterial. We know that he loved you. Now it is perilous for an anarchist to love.”

“I do not believe that Salti is one of you,” she broke in.

“He is not,” the man said quietly. “He is dead. He was in the way.”

In spite of herself she started, and both men smiled cynically.

“The point is this,” the elder man proceeded. “We do not know how much Salti told you. It is possible that he may have blurted out other and more important—er—schemes than this of the Opera House which has failed. Have you anything to say?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Ah! We expected that. Now, let me point out that you are dangerous to us, that there is only one possible course open to you. You must join us.”

“Join you?” she exclaimed, and then laughed.

“Yes,” the man said. “I repeat there is no alternative—none whatever. You must take the oaths.”

“And if I refuse?”

The man shrugged his shoulders, and after a suggestive pause murmured:

“Well—think of Salti.”

“I do refuse,” she said.

A door opened at the other end of the room, and a third man entered.

“The Chief!” said the younger of the men at the table. “He will continue the examination.”

The new-comer was comparatively youthful—under thirty—and had the look of a well-born Italian. He gave a glance at Vesea, stood still, and then approached the table and sat down.

“This is Louise Vesea,” the first speaker said, and rapidly indicated how far he had gone. There was a long silence.

“Thanks, brothers,” the Chief said. “By a strange coincidence I know this lady—this woman, and I feel convinced that it will be better, in the interests of our cause, if—if I examine her alone.” He spoke with authority, and yet with a certain queer hesitation.

The two men silently, but with obvious reluctance, rose and left the room.

When they were alone, the great singer and the Chief fronted each other in silence.

“Well?” said Vesea.“Madame,” the Chief began slowly and thoughtfully. “Do you remember singing in Milan ten years ago? You were at the beginning of your career then, but already famous.”

His voice was rich and curiously persuasive.

Without wishing to do so, Vesea nodded an affirmative.

“One night you were driving home from the opera, and there was a riot going on in the streets. The police were everywhere. People whispered of a secret revolutionary society among the students of the University. As for the students, after a pitched battle near the Cathedral, they were flying. Suddenly, looking from your carriage, you saw a very youthful student, who had been struck on the head, fall down in the gutter and then get up again and struggle on. You stopped your carriage. ‘Save me,’ the youth cried, ‘Save me, Signorina. If the police catch me I shall get ten years’ imprisonment!’ You opened the door of your carriage, and the youth jumped in. ‘Quick, under the rug,’ you said quietly. You did not ask me any questions. You didn’t stay to consider whether the youth might be a dangerous person. You merely said, ‘Quick, under the rug!’ The youth crept under the rug. The carriage moved on slowly, and the police, who shortly appeared, never thought of looking within it for a fugitive young anarchist. The youth was saved. For two days you had him in your lodging, and then he got safely away to the coast, and so by ship to another country. Do you remember that incident, Madame?”

“I remember it well,” she answered. “What happened to the youth?”

“I am he,” the Chief said.

“You?” she exclaimed. “I should scarcely have guessed but for your voice. You are changed.”

“In our profession one changes quickly.”

“Why do you remind me of that incident?” she asked.

“You saved my life then. I shall save yours now.”

“Is my life really in danger?”

“Unless you joined us—yes.”

She laughed incredulously.

“In London! Impossible!”

He made a gesture with his hands.

“Do not let us argue on that point,” he said gravely. “Go through that door,” he pointed to the door by which he himself had entered. “You will find yourself in a small garden. The garden gate leads to a narrow passage past some stables and so into the street. Go quickly, and take a cab. Don’t return to your own house. Go somewhere else—anywhere else. And leave London early to-morrow morning.”He silently opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” she said. His seriousness had affected her. “How shall you explain my departure to your—your friends?”

“In my own way,” he replied calmly. “When a man has deliberately betrayed his cause, there is only one explanation.”

“Betrayed his cause!” She repeated the phrase wonderingly.

“Madame,” he said, “do you suppose they will call it anything else? Go at once. I will wait half an hour before summoning my comrades. By that time they will have become impatient. Then you will be safe, and I will give them my explanation.”

“And that will be——?”

He put her right hand to his lip and then stopped.

“Good-bye, Madame,” he said without replying to the question. “We are quits. I kiss your hand.”

Almost reluctantly Louise Vesea went forth. And as she reached the street she felt for the first time that it was indeed a fatal danger from which she had escaped. She reflected that the Chief had imposed no secrecy upon her, made no conditions; and she could not help but admire such a method of repaying a debt. She wondered what his explanation to his comrades would be.Half an hour later, when Vesea was far away, there was the sound of a revolver shot. The other two plotters rushed into the room which the prima donna had left, and found all the explanation which the Chief had vouchsafed.