"But you are mad," said the young man at length. "Even if you are right in your diagnosis of the disease from which the country is suffering, if the remedy you suggest is the only one, I am not the man you need. And even if I were, the remedy is impossible. England is not where France was a hundred years ago; she is not where Russia is to-day."

"And you are not a Lenin, a Trotsky, eh?" and Mr. John Brown laughed like a man who had made a joke.

"No, thank Heaven, I am not," and Dick spoke quickly. "I do not believe in the nationalisation of women, neither do I believe in the destruction of the most sacred institutions of life."

"Of course you don't," replied Mr. John Brown, "and I am glad of it. Russia has gone to many excesses which we must avoid. But what can you expect, my friend? After centuries of oppression and persecution, is it any wonder that there has been a swing of the pendulum? The same thing was true of France a hundred years ago. France went wild, France lost her head, and neither Danton nor Robespierre checked the extravagances of the people. But, answer me this. Is not France a thousand times better to-day than when under the Bourbons and the Church? Is not such a Republic as France has, infinitely better than the reign of a corrupt throne, a rotten aristocracy, and a rottener Church? Besides, did not a great part of those who were guillotined deserve their doom?"

"Perhaps they did; but—but the thing is impossible, all the same."

"Why impossible?"

"For one thing, Lenin and Trotsky are in a country without order and law. They murdered the Tzar and his family, and they seized the money of the Government and of the banks. Such a thing as you suggest would need millions, and you could not get any body of Englishmen to follow on the Russian lines. Besides—no, the thing is impossible!"

"Money!" repeated Mr. John Brown, like a man reflecting. "I myself would place in your hands all the money you need for organisation and propaganda."

"In my hands!"

"In your hands, my friend. Yes, in your hands. But we have talked enough now. You want time to think over what has been said. But will you do something, my friend?"

"I don't know. I suspect not."

"I think you will. To-night I want you to accompany me to a place where your eyes will be opened. I want you to see how deep are the feelings of millions, how strong is the longing for a leader, a guide. You, who have felt the pulses of the millions who live and act in the open, have no idea of what is felt by the millions who act in the dark."

"I do not understand."

"Of course you don't. You and other so-called Labour leaders, because you mingle with a class which you call the people, think you know everything. You believe you know the thought, the spirit of the age. Come with me to-night and I will show you a phase of life hitherto unknown to you. You will come? Yes?"

"Oh yes, I will come," replied Dick, with a laugh. The conversation had excited him beyond measure, and he was eager for adventure.

"Good. Be at the entrance to the Blackfriars Underground Station to-night at eleven o'clock."

"At eleven; all right."

Mr. John Brown looked at his watch, and then gave a hasty glance round the room. He saw two portly looking men coming in their direction.

"I am sure you will excuse me, Mr. Faversham. It is later than I thought, and I find I have appointments. But it has been very interesting to know your point of view. Good evening. Ah, Sir Felix, I thought you might drop in to-night," and leaving Dick as though their talk had been of the most commonplace nature, he shook hands with the newcomers.

Dick, feeling himself dismissed, left the club, and a minute later found himself in the thronging crowd of Piccadilly. Taxicabs, buses, richly upholstered motor-cars were passing, but he did not heed them. People jostled him as he made his way towards Hyde Park gates, but he was unaware of it. His head was in a whirl; he was living in a maze of conflicting thoughts.

Of course old John Brown was a madman! Nothing but a madman would advance such a quixotic programme! He pictured the club he had just left—quiet, orderly, circumspect—the natural rendezvous for City and West End magnates, the very genius of social order and moneyed respectability. How, then, could a respected member of such a place advance such a mad-brained scheme?

But he had.

Not that he—Dick Faversham—could regard it seriously. Of course he had during the last two years been drawn into a new world, and had been led to accept socialistic ideas. Some, even among the Socialists, called them advanced. But this!

Of course it was impossible.

All the same, there was a great deal in what John Brown had said. A Labour Member. A paid voting machine at £400 a year! The words rankled in his mind.

And this scheme was alluring. The country for the people!...

He made his way along the causeway, thinking of it.

A Revolution! The old bad, mad order of things ended by one mighty upheaval! A new England, with a new outlook, a new Government!... A mighty movement which might grip the world. A new earth....

And he—Dick Faversham?

Here was scope for new enterprises! Here was a career! On the one hand, a paid working man member at £400 a year, regarded with a supercilious smile by the class to which he really belonged; and, on the other, a force which shook Society to its foundations—a leader whose name would be on all lips....

Of course it was all nonsense, and he would drive it from his mind.

And he would not meet Mr. John Brown that night. What a madcap idea to go to some midnight gathering—where, Heaven only knew! And for what?

He had reached Park Lane, and almost unconsciously he turned eastward.

He could not remember a single thing that had happened during his walk from Park Lane to Piccadilly Circus. The great tide of human life surged to and fro, but he was oblivious of the fact.

He was thinking—wildly thinking.

Then suddenly he gave a start. Just as he reached the Circus he saw a face which set his heart beating wildly.

"Ah, Faversham, is that you?"

"Count Romanoff!" Dick almost gasped.

"Yes; who would have thought of seeing you? Still, the world is small."

The Count was not changed. He still carried himself proudly, and was dressed to perfection. Also, he still seemed to regard others with a degree of indifference. He was the same contemptuous, cynical man of the world.

"What are you doing, eh? Still living at Wendover Park?"

"No. You know I am not."

"No? Ah, I remember now. I have been knocking around the world ever since, and had almost forgotten. But your quondam cousin entered possession, didn't he? But you, what did you do?"

"Oh, I—I drifted."

"Drifted—where?—to what? You look changed. Things are not going well with you, eh?"

"Yes—quite well, thank you."

"Yes? You married Lady Blanche? But no, I should have heard of it."

"No; I did not marry. I am living in Eastroyd."

"Eastroyd! Where's that?"

"Don't you know?"

"Never heard of it before. Is it in England?"

Dick was growing angry; there was a sneer in every tone of the man's voice. He felt a mad desire to make the Count see that he had become a man of importance.

"Yes; it's in the North," he replied. "It's a huge town of a quarter of a million people. A great industrial centre."

"And what are you doing there?"

"I'm contemplating an invitation to become a Member of Parliament for the town. I'm assured that, if I accept, my return to the House of Commons is certain."

"Ah, that's interesting. And which side will you take—Conservative or Liberal? Conservative, I suppose?"

"No; I should stand as a Labour candidate."

"As a——Surely I didn't hear you aright?"

"Quite right. My sympathies have come to lie in that direction."

"But—but—a Labour Member! I thought you had some pretensions to be a gentleman."

Dick felt as though he had received the lash of a whip. He wanted to lash back, to make Romanoff feel what he felt. But no words came.

"You have no sympathy with the working classes?" he asked feebly.

"Sympathy! What gentleman could? See what they've done in my own country. I had little sympathy with Nicky; but great heavens, think! Of course I'm angry. I had estates in Russia; they had been in the families for centuries—and now! But the thing is a nightmare! Working classes, eh! I'd take every mal-content in Europe and shoot him. What are the working classes but lazy, drunken swine that should be bludgeoned into obedience?"

"I don't think you understand the British working classes," was Dick's response.

"No? I'm sure I don't want to. I prefer my own class. But pray don't let me keep you from them. Good evening."

Without another word, without holding out his hand, the Count turned on his heel and walked away.

The incident affected Dick in two ways. First of all, it made his experiences three years before in the Wendover Park very shadowy and unreal. In spite of everything, he had not been able to think of the Count save as an evil influence in his life, as one who desired to get him into his power for his own undoing. He had had a vague belief that in some way unknown to him, Romanoff desired to hold him in his grip for sinister purposes, and that he had been saved by an opposing power. Had he been asked to assert this he would have hesitated, and perhaps been silent. Still, at the back of his doubt the feeling existed. But now, with the memory of the Count's contemptuous words and looks in his mind, it all appeared as groundless and as unreal as the fabric of a dream. If he had been right, he would not have treated him in such a fashion.

The other way in which the incident affected him was to arouse an angry determination to win a position equal to and superior to that which would be his as Charles Faversham's heir. He would by his own endeavours rise to such heights that even the Count's own position would pale into insignificance. After all, what were kings and princes? Their day was over. Soon, soon thrones all over the world would topple like ninepins; soon the power of the world would be in new hands.

A Labour Member, indeed! Working people swine, were they? Soon the working people of the world would be masters! Then woe be to a useless, corrupt aristocracy! As for the leaders of the toilers...

"I'll meet Mr. John Brown again to-night," he reflected. "I'll go to this, this!... I wonder what he has in his mind?"

Meanwhile Count Romanoff wandered along Piccadilly till he came to St. James's Street. He was smiling as though something pleasant had happened to him. His eyes, too, shone with a strange light, and he walked like a victor.

He walked past the Devonshire Club, and then turned into a street almost opposite St. James's Square. Here he looked at his watch and walked more slowly. Evidently he knew his way well, for he took several turnings without the slightest hesitation, till at length he reached a house at the corner of a street. He selected a key from a bunch, opened the door of the house, and entered. For a moment he stood still and listened; then, walking noiselessly along a thick carpet, he opened the door of a room and entered.

"Sitting in the dark, eh? Reflecting on the destiny of nations, I suppose?"

The Count's manner was light and pleasant. He was in a good humour. He switched on the light and saw Mr. John Brown. It would seem that they had met by appointment.

"Yes," replied Mr. Brown; "I was reflecting on the destiny of nations—reflecting, too, on the fact that the greatest victories of the world are won not by armies who fight in the open, but by brains that act in the dark."

"You have seen him. I know that."

"How do you know?"

"I know everything, my friend. You met him about an hour ago. You had a long talk with him. You have baited your hook, and thrown it. Before you could tell whether the fish would rise, you thought it better to wait. You decided to make further preparations."

"Romanoff, I believe you are the devil."

"Many a true word is spoken in jest, my friend. But, devil or not, am I not right?"

"You have seen him? He has told you?"

"He has told me nothing. Yes, he has, though. He has told me he had ambitions to be a Labour Member of Parliament."

"But nothing more?"

"Nothing more. I was passing along the street and spoke to him."

The two were looking at each other eagerly, questioningly. Mr. John Brown's face had become flabby; the flesh around his eyes was baggy. The eyes had a furtive look, as though he stood in awe of his companion. Romanoff, too, in spite of his claim to omniscience, might be a little anxious.

"The fellow's career is a miracle," remarked Mr. John Brown at length. "A millionaire one day, a pauper the next. And then to settle down as a toiler among toilers—to become the popular hero, the socialist leader, the rebel, the seer of visions, the daring reformer! A miracle, I say! But with proper guidance, he is the man we need. He can do much!"

Count Romanoff laughed like one amused.

"Germany is in a bad way, eh? Poor Wilhelm, what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"

"Be quiet!" cried the other hoarsely. "Even here the walls may have ears, and if it were suspected that——"

"Exactly, my friend," sneered the Count. "But tell me how you stand."

For some time they talked quietly, earnestly, the Count asking questions and raising objections, while Mr. John Brown explained what he had in his mind.

"Germany is never beaten," he said—"never. When arms fail, brains come in. Russia has become what Russia is, not by force of arms, but by brains. Whose? And Germany will triumph. This fellow is only one of many who are being used. A network of agencies are constantly at work."

"And to-night you are going to introduce him to Olga?" and the Count laughed.

"The most fascinating woman in Europe, my friend. Yes; to-night I am going to open his eyes. To-night he will fall in love. To-night will be the beginning of the end of Britain's greatness!"