“

Macheson, by Jove! Where on earth have you sprung from?”

Holderness threw down his pen and held out both his hands. Macheson drew a long sigh of relief.

“From the pigsties, Dick. Whew! It’s good to see you again—to be here!”

Holderness surveyed his friend critically.

“What have you been up to?” he asked. “Look washed out, as though you’d had a fever or something. I’ve been expecting to see you every day.”

“I’ve been on a pleasure trip to Paris,” Macheson answered. “Don’t talk about it, for God’s sake.”

Holderness roared with laughter.

“You poor idiot!” he exclaimed. “Been on the razzle-dazzle, I believe. I wish I’d known. I’d have come.”

“It’s all very well to laugh,” Macheson answered. “I feel like a man who’s been living in a sewer.”

“Are you cured?” Holderness asked abruptly.

Macheson hesitated. As yet he had not dared to ask himself that question. Holderness watched the struggle in his face.

“I’m sorry I asked you that,” he said quietly. “Look here! I know what you’ve come to me for, and I can give it you. You can start at once if you like.”

“Work?” Macheson asked eagerly. “You mean that?”

“Of course! Tons of it! Henwood’s at his wits’ end in Stepney. He’s started lecturing, and the thing’s taken on, but he can’t go on night after night. We don’t want anything second-rate either. Then I want help with the paper.”

“I’ll help you with the paper as soon as you like,” Macheson declared. “I’d like to go to Stepney, too, but could we hit it, Henwood and I?”

“Of course,” Holderness answered. “What are you thinking of, man? You haven’t become a straw-splitter, have you?”

“Not I,” Macheson answered “but you have crystallized your ideas into a cult, haven’t you? I might find myself on the other side of the traces.”

“Rot!” Holderness answered vigorously. “Look here! This is what we call ugliness and dirt. We say that these things make for misery. We say that it is every man’s duty, and every woman’s, too, to keep themselves clean and clean-living, for the sake of the community. We take the Christian code. It is the most complete, the most philosophic, the most beautiful. We preach it not from the Christian standpoint, but from the point of view of the man of common sense. Doctrinal religions are all very well in their way, but the great bald fact remains that the truth has not been vouchsafed to us through any of them. Therefore we say live the life and wait. From a scientific point of view we believe, of course, in a future state. It may be that the truth awaits us there. You can work to that, can’t you?”

“Of course,” Macheson answered, “but don’t you rather overlook the support which doctrine gives to the weak and superstitious?”

“Bah! There are the strong to be considered,” Holderness declared. “Think how many men of average intelligence chuck the whole thing because they can’t stomach doctrine. Besides, these people all think, if you want to confirm ’em or baptize ’em or anything of that sort, that you’ve your own axe to grind. Jolly suspicious lot the East-Enders, I can tell you.”

“I’ll go and see Henwood,” Macheson declared.

Holderness glanced at his watch.

“We’ll have something to eat and go together,” he declared. “Look here, I’m really pushed or I wouldn’t bother you. Can you do me a country walk in November for the paper? I have two a month. You can take the last number and see the sort of thing.”

“I’ll try,” Macheson promised. “You can give me a couple of days, I suppose?”

“A week—only I want it off my mind. You can get out somewhere and rub up your impressions. We’ll dine for half a crown in Soho, and you shall tell me about Paris.”

Macheson groaned.

“Shut up about Paris,” he begged. “The thought of it’s like a nightmare to me—a nightmare full of puppet gnomes, with human masks and the faces of devils underneath.”

“The masks came off?” Holderness asked.

Macheson shivered.

“They did,” he answered.

“Do you good,” Holderness declared coolly, locking his desk. “I’ve been through it. So long as the masks came off it’s all right. What was it sent you there, Victor?”

“A piece of madness,” Macheson answered in a low tone, “supreme, utter madness.”

“Cured?”

“Oh! I hope so,” Macheson answered. “If not—well, I can fight.”

Holderness stood still for a moment. There was a queer look in his eyes.

“There was a woman once, Victor,” he said, “who nearly made mincemeat of my life. She could have done it if she liked—and she wasn’t the sort who spares. She died—thank God! You see I know something about it.”

They walked out arm in arm, and not a word passed between them till they reached the street. Then Holderness called a hansom.

“I feel like steak,” he declared. “Entre-cÔte with potatoes, maÎtre d’hÔtel. Somehow I feel particularly like steak. We will chuck Soho and dine at the CafÉ Royal.”

They talked mostly of Henwood and his work. Holderness spoke of it as successful, but the man himself was weakly. The strain of holding his difficult audience night after night had begun to tell on him. Macheson’s help would be invaluable. There was a complete school of night classes running in connexion with the work, and also a library. “You can guess where the money came from for those,” he added, smiling. “On the women’s side there was only the cookery, and the care of the children. All very imperfect, but with the making of great things about it.”

They went into the CafÉ proper for their coffee, sitting at a marble-topped table, and Holderness called for dominoes. But they had scarcely begun their game before Macheson started from his seat, and without a word of explanation strode towards the door. He was just in time to stop the egress of the man whom he had seen slip from his seat and try to leave the place.

“Look here,” he said, touching him on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you.”

The man made no further attempt at escape. He was very shabby and thin, but Macheson had recognized him at once. It was the man who had come stealing down the lane from Thorpe on that memorable night—the man for whose escape from justice he was responsible.

“My friend won’t interfere with us,” Macheson said, leading him back to their seats. “Sit down here.”

The man sat down quietly. Holderness took up a paper.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I shan’t listen.”

“If I am to talk,” the man said, “I must have some absinthe. My throat is dry. I have things to say to you, too.”

Macheson called a waiter and ordered it.

“Look here,” the man said, “I know all that you want to say to me. I can save you time. It was I who called upon old Mr. Hurd. It was out of kindness that I went. He has a daughter whom I cannot find. She is in danger, and I went to warn him. He struck me first. He lost his temper. He would not tell me where to find her, he would not give me even the money I had spent on my journey. I, too, lost my temper. I returned the blow. He fell down—and I was frightened. So I ran away.”

Macheson nodded.

“Well,” he said, “you seem to have struck an old man because he would not let you blackmail him, and I, like a fool, helped you to escape.”

“Blackmail!” The man looked around him as though afraid of the word. His cheeks were sunken, but his brown eyes were still bright. “It wasn’t that,” he said. “I brought information that was really valuable. There is a young lady somewhere who is in danger of her life. I came to warn him; I believed what I had always been told, that she was his daughter. I found out that it was a lie. It was a conspiracy against me. He never had a daughter. But I am going to find out who she is!”

“What if I give you up to the police?” Macheson asked.

“For the sake of the woman whom the old man Hurd was shielding you had better not. You had very much better not,” was the hoarse reply. “If you do, it may cost a woman her life.”

“Why are you staying on in England?” Macheson asked.

“To find that woman, and I will find her,” he added, with glittering eyes. “Listen! I have seen her riding in a carriage, beautifully dressed, with coachman and footman upon the box, an aristocrat. I always said that she was that. It was a plot against us—to call her that old man’s daughter.”

“All this has nothing to do with me,” Macheson said quietly. “The only thing I have to consider is whether I ought or ought not to hand you over to the police.”

The man eyed him craftily. He had little fear.

“If you did, sir,” he said, “it would be an injustice. I only touched the old man in self-defence.”

Macheson looked at him gravely.

“I hope that that is the truth,” he said. “You can go.”

The man stood up. He did not immediately depart.

“What is it?” Macheson asked.

“I was wondering, sir,” he said, in a confidential whisper, “whether you could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself Stephen Hurd’s daughter in Paris six years ago.”

Macheson shook his head.

“I have no idea,” he answered curtly.

The man shuffled away. Macheson lit a cigarette and watched him for a moment steadfastly through the large gilt-framed mirror.

“Queer sort of Johnny, your friend,” Holderness remarked.

“He’s a bad lot, I’m afraid,” Macheson answered. “Somehow or other I can’t help wishing that I hadn’t seen him.”

Holderness laughed.

“Man alive,” he said, “it’s a good thing you’ve come back to me, or you’d be a bundle of nerves in no time. We’ll get along now, if you’re ready. You might find something to say to ’em to-night. I know Henwood’s pretty well pumped dry.”

They left the place, and took an omnibus citywards.