That night, and for many nights afterwards, Macheson devoted himself to his work in the East End. The fascination of the thing grew upon him; he threw himself into his task with an energy which carried him often out of his own life and made forgetfulness an easy task. Night after night they came, these tired, white-faced women, with a sprinkling of sullen, dejected-looking men; night after night he pleaded and reasoned with them, striving with almost passionate earnestness to show them how to make the best of the poor thing they called life. Gradually his efforts began to tell upon himself. He grew thinner, there were shadows under his eyes, a curious intangible depression seemed to settle upon him. Holderness one night sought him out and insisted upon dinner together.

“Look here, Victor,” he said, “I have a bone to pick with you. You’d better listen! Don’t sit there staring round the place as though you saw ghosts everywhere.”

Macheson smiled mirthlessly.

“But that is just what I do see,” he answered. “The conscience of every man who knows must be haunted with them! The ghosts of starving men and unsexed women! What keeps their hands from our throats, Dick?”

“Common sense, you idiot,” Holderness answered cheerfully. “There’s a refuse heap for every one of nature’s functions. You may try to rake it out and cleanse it, but there isn’t much to be done. Hang that mission work, Victor! It’s broken more hearts than anything else on earth! A man can but do what he may.”

“The refuse heap is man’s work!” Macheson muttered.

“But not wholly his responsibility,” Holderness declared. “We’re part of the machine, but remember the wheels are driven by fate, or God, or whatever the hidden motive force of the universe may be. Don’t lose yourself, Macheson! Sentiment’s a good thing under control. It’s a sickly master.”

“You call it sentiment, if one feels the horror of this garbage heap! Come to-night and look into their faces.”

“I’ve done it,” Holderness declared. “I’ve been through it all. Hang it all, do you forget that I’m the editor of a Socialist magazine? No! feel it you must, but don’t let it upset your mental balance. Don’t lose your values!”

Macheson left his friend in a saner frame of mind. His words came back to him that night as he watched the little stream of people file out from the bare white-washed building, with its rows of cheap cane chairs. It was so true! To give way to despair was simply to indulge in a sentimental debauch. Yet in a sense he had never felt so completely the pitiful ineffectiveness of his task. How could he preach the Christian morality, expound the Christian doctrines, to a people whose very sufferings, whose constant agony, was a hideous and glaring proof that by the greater part of the world those doctrines were ignored!

A man was shown into his room afterwards, as he was putting on his overcoat. Almost with relief Macheson saw that he at least had no pitiful tale to tell. He was a small dapper man, well dressed, and spoke with a slight American accent.

“Mr. Macheson,” he said, “I’m taking the liberty of introducing myself. Peter Drayton my name is, never mind my profession. It wouldn’t interest you.”

Macheson nodded.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, with some curiosity.

“Say, I’ve been very much interested in these talks of yours to the people,” Mr. Drayton remarked. “But it’s occurred to me that you’re on the wrong end of the stick. That’s why I’m here. You’re saying the right things, and you’ve got the knack of saying them so that people have just got to listen, but you’re saying them to the wrong crowd.”

“I don’t understand,” Macheson was forced to confess.

“Well, I reckon it’s simple enough,” Drayton answered. “These people here don’t need to have their own misery thrust down their throats, even while you’re trying to show them how to bear it. It’s the parties who are responsible for it all that you want to go for. See what I mean?”

“I think so,” Macheson admitted, “but——”

“Look here,” Drayton interrupted, “you’re a man of common sense, and you know that life’s more or less a stand-up fight. Those that are licked live here in Whitechapel—if you can call it living—and those who win get to Belgravia! It’s a pitiless sort of affair this fight, but there it is. Now which of the two do you think need preaching to, these people, or the people who are responsible for them? You’ve started a mission in Whitechapel—it would have been more logical, if there’s a word of truth in your religion, to have started it in Mayfair.”

Macheson laughed.

“They wouldn’t listen to me,” he declared.

“I’d see to that,” Drayton answered quickly. “It’s my business. I want you to give a course of—well, we’d call them lectures, in the West End. You can say what you like. You can pitch into ’em as hot as Hell! I’ll guarantee you a crowded audience every time.”

“I have no interest in those people,” Macheson said. “Why should I go and lecture to them? My sympathies are all down here.”

“Exactly,” Drayton answered. “I want you to stir up the people who can really help, people who can give millions, pull down these miles of fever-tainted rat holes, endow farms here and abroad. Lash them till their conscience squeaks! See? What’s the good of preaching to these people? That won’t do any good! You want to preach to the really ignorant, the really depraved, the West-Enders!”

“Do I understand,” Macheson asked, “that you have a definite scheme in which you are inviting me to take part?”

Drayton lit a cigarette and led the way out.

“Look here,” he said, “I’ll walk with you as far as you’re going, and tell you all about it....”

It was a sort of pilgrimage which Macheson undertook during these restless nights, a walk seemingly purposeless, the sole luxury which he permitted himself. Always about the same hour he found himself on the garden side of Berkeley Square, always he stood and looked, for a period of time of which he took no count, at the tall, dimly lit house, across whose portals he had once passed into fairyland. Then came a night when everything was changed. Lights flashed from the windows, freshly painted window-boxes had been filled with flowers, scarce enough now; everything seemed to denote a sudden spirit of activity. Macheson stood and watched with a curious sense of excitement stirring in his blood. He knew very well what was happening. She was coming, perhaps had already arrived in town. He realized as he stood there, a silent motionless figure, how far gone in his folly he really was, how closely woven were the bonds that held him. For time seemed to him of no account beside the chance of seeing her, if only for a moment, as she passed in or out. He never knew how long he waited there—it was long enough, however, for his patience to be rewarded. Smoothly, with flashing lights, a little electric brougham turned into the Square and pulled up immediately opposite to him. The tall footman sprang to the ground, the door flew open, he saw a slim, familiar figure, veiled and dressed in a dark travelling costume, pass leisurely up the steps and into the arc of light which streamed through the open door. The brougham glided away, the door was closed, she was gone. Still Macheson leaned forward, watching the spot where she had been, his heart thumping against his sides, his senses thrilled with the excitement of her coming. Suddenly his attention was diverted in a curious manner. He became conscious that he was not the only watcher under the chestnut trees. A man had stolen out from amongst the deeper shadows close up to the railings, and was standing by his side. Macheson recognized him with a start.

“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

His fellow-watcher, too, showed signs of excitement. His cheeks were flushed. He pointed across the road with shaking finger, and looked up into Macheson’s face with a triumphant chuckle.

“Run to earth at last!” he exclaimed. “You saw her! You saw her, too!”

“I saw a lady enter that house,” Macheson answered. “What of it?”

The man whom he had once befriended drew a breath between his clenched teeth.

“There she goes!” he muttered. “The woman who dared to call herself the daughter of a poor land-agent! The woman who is deceiving her world to-day as she deceived us—once! Bah! It is finished!”

He started to cross the road. Macheson kept by his side.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

The man pointed to the brilliantly lit house.

“There!” he answered fiercely. “I am going to see her. To-night! At once! She shall not escape me this time!”

“What do you want with her?” Macheson asked.

“Money—or exposure, such an exposure,” the man answered. “But she will pay. She owes a good deal; but she will pay.”

“And supposing,” Macheson said, “that I were to tell you that this lady is a friend of mine, and that I will not have you intrude upon her—what then?”

Something venomous gleamed in the man’s eyes. A short unpleasant laugh escaped him.

“Not all the devils in hell,” he declared, “would keep me from going to her. For five years she’s fooled us! Not a day longer, not an hour!”

Macheson’s hand rested lightly upon the man’s shoulder.

“Can you reach her from prison?” he asked calmly.

The man turned and snarled at him. He knew well enough that escape or resistance alike was hopeless. He was like a pigmy in the hands of the man who held him.

“This isn’t your affair,” he pleaded earnestly. “Let me go, or I shall do you a mischief some day. Remember it was you who helped me to escape. You can’t give me away now.”

“I helped you to escape,” Macheson said, “but I did not know what you had done. There is another matter. You have to go away from here quietly and swear never to molest——”

The man ducked with a sudden backward movement, and tried to escape, but Macheson was on his guard.

“You are a fool,” the man hissed out, his small bead-like eyes glittering as though touched with fire, his thick red lips parted, showing his ugly teeth. “It is money alone I want from her. I have but to breathe her name and this address in a certain quarter of Paris, and there are others who would take her life. Let me go!”

Then Macheson was conscious of a familiar figure crossing the street in their direction. He had seen him come furtively out of the house they had been watching, and had recognized him at once. It was Stephen Hurd. Keeping his grasp upon his captive’s shoulder, Macheson intercepted him.

“Hurd,” he said, “I want to speak to you.”

Hurd started, and his face darkened with anger when he saw who it was that had accosted him. Macheson continued hurriedly.

“Look here,” he said. “I owe you this at any rate. I have just caught our friend here watching this house. Have you ever seen him before?”

Hurd looked down into the face of the man who, with an evil shrug of the shoulders, had resigned himself—for the present—to the inevitable.

“Never,” he answered. “Can’t say I’m particularly anxious to see him again. Convert of yours?” he asked, with a sneer.

“He is the man who visited your father on the night of his death,” Macheson said.

Stephen Hurd was like a man electrified. He seized hold of the other’s arm in excitement.

“Is this true?” he demanded.

The man blinked his eyes.

“You have to prove it,” he said. “I admit nothing.”

“You can leave him to me,” Stephen Hurd said, turning to Macheson.

Macheson nodded and prepared to walk on.

“There is a police-station behind to the left,” he remarked.

Hurd took no notice. He had thrust his arm tightly through the other man’s.

“I have been looking for you,” he said eagerly. “We must have a talk together. We will take this hansom,” he added, hailing one.

The man drew back.

“Are you going to take me to the police-station?” he demanded.

“Police-station, no!” Hurd answered roughly. “What good would that do me? Get in! CafÉ Monico!”