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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Council of Seven," J. C. Snaith constructs a complex narrative that delves into the intricacies of power dynamics and moral dilemmas within a fantastical realm. Snaith employs a richly descriptive literary style that marries lyrical prose with robust, character-driven dialogue, drawing readers into the heart of a council where seven formidable leaders grapple with their roles in shaping an uncertain future. Interwoven with elements of political intrigue, the novel prompts readers to ponder themes of loyalty, ambition, and the ethical responsibilities of authority, situating itself within the broader landscape of early 20th-century speculative fiction. J. C. Snaith was a pivotal figure in his literary milieu, having been influenced by his philosophical studies and a profound interest in the psychological complexity of human relationships. His background in literature and his passion for exploring the human condition contribute to the depth and nuance found in "The Council of Seven." This novel reflects Snaith's dedication to crafting narratives that challenge readers to reflect on their ethical beliefs and societal structures. For those who appreciate intricate world-building coupled with profound thematic exploration, "The Council of Seven" offers a compelling read. It serves not only as an engaging tale of intrigue but also as a thought-provoking commentary on the nature of governance and morality, making it essential for scholars and casual readers alike. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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The Council of Seven
Table of Contents
The Council of Seven
I
AT FIVE o’clock of a September evening, Helen Sholto left the office, as usual, and went to her club. Opposite the tube lift in Dover Street, London, out of which she came, was a bookstall. Clamoring across the front, a newsbill at once caught the eye of an informed modern woman:
BRITAIN AND AMERICA
AMAZING SPEECH BY
JOHN ENDOR, M.P.
She bought a copy of the Evening Press. Looking it quickly through, she found in the column for late news a blurred, hastily-inserted paragraph
THE ANGLO-AMERICAN SITUATION
Speaking to-day at Blackhampton Town Hall at a luncheon given in his honor, John Endor, M.P., said that this country’s relations with America were bound to prove a source of continual and growing anxiety. Dangerous, subterranean influences were at work on both sides of the Atlantic. In many things of vital importance the two nations would never see eye to eye. Let the people of these islands always stand ready. Personally, he believed in the Sword.
Helen gasped. The words were like icy water thrown in the face. And the sensation of having had all the breath taken out of her body was increased by the knowledge that a second purchaser of the Evening Press, a rough-looking workman, standing by her elbow, had given a savage exclamation. Moreover, in the act of so doing, by that process of telepathy beyond whose threshold Science has yet to peer, he caught the distracted eyes of the particularly attractive-looking girl who was folding up her own copy of the paper.
“Does for him, I reckon!” And the man spat savagely.
Helen turned abruptly away, and walked slowly along Dover Street. A thousand imps were loose in her brain. Space, quiet, solitude were needed in which to quell them, to bring them under control. Almost it was as if the bottom had fallen out of the world in which she lived.
II
THE Helicon Club[1] was at the end of the street. Women interested in literature, the arts, in social and public affairs could lunch, dine, entertain their friends in this oasis. Its pleasant rooms were large and cool, and, crowning boon in the very heart of modern Babylon, they offered even a measure of isolation. For the members’ roll did not respond too readily to the length of “the waiting list.”
A nook of the “silence” room enabled Helen to think her thoughts with the help of a well-earned cup of tea. And a second look at the evening paper cast one ray upon the darkness. “I believe in the Sword.[1q]” The phrase hurt like a blow, yet somehow it forced the conclusion upon her that the speech could not have been reported accurately. Knowing John Endor so well, she could not bring herself to believe that those were the words he had used. It hardly seemed credible that without some hint beforehand he should go back on all that he stood for in political life.
Bent on setting doubt at rest, she went presently to the telephone and rang up John’s chambers in Bury Street. She was informed that Mr. Endor had not yet returned from Blackhampton, but that he was expected home about half past seven. Thereupon she left a message, asking him, if not otherwise engaged, to come and dine with her, adding the little feminine proviso that “he was not to dress.”
It was then a quarter to six. Two hours slowly passed. Helen had letters to write, a book deeply interesting to look at. Much was said, all the same, for her mental habit that, with a grim specter in the outskirts of her mind, she could yet dragoon her will to the task of putting it away.
A few minutes before eight John arrived. She went to him at once. The glow of her greeting masked a tumult of feeling. None could have guessed from such entrain that she was facing a crisis upon whose issue her whole life must turn.
“What a piece of luck that you were able to come!”
The eyes and the laugh of a man deeply in love proclaimed this happy chance to be even more than that.
With no other preface, Helen led the way to the dining room. Before one question could be put to a hard-driven politician he must be fed. No matter what her own emotions might immediately dictate, she had a sense, almost masculine, of the rules of the game. Hers was a powerfully disciplined nature. A terrible phrase seared her like an acid, but for the time being sheer stoicism allowed her to bear the pain.
A table had been commandeered without difficulty in a favorite corner. Only a few of the Club habitués were dining, but John Endor brought a new interest into the room. It was no more than the emotion he was accustomed to excite. He leapt to the eye of every assembly. A force, a magnet, the lines of a rare personality made an effect of positive beauty. Nearly all women were attracted by him.
Well over six feet high, thin almost to emaciation, pale with the cast of thought, his high cheek-bones seemed to accentuate the hollows beneath them. The poise of the head and the features exquisitely bold might have been lures for the chisel of Pheidias; the deep eyes with their in-striking glances were those of a seer. Moving with freedom and grace, he had the look of a man who has seen a vision of the eternal. Nature at last seemed to have come near that which through the centuries she had been in search of. In the mind and mansion of John Endor her only concern was ultimate things.
As he crossed the wide room, intense curiosity tinged in some cases by an open admiration, was in the gaze of the other diners. Yet this did not apply to all. The curiosity was universal, but in one or two instances there was also a steady, level-lidded hostility. Helen was conscious of this as she piloted him to their table, perhaps because it was to be expected; but in this rising politician who had Gladstone’s power of arousing strong yet diverse emotion wherever he went there was an apartness which lifted him far beyond the plane whereon friend gives the countercheck to foe.
It was a good dinner. And the guest, for all his air of other-worldliness, had none of that rather dubious breeding which holds itself indifferent to what it eats and drinks. He complimented his hostess upon a modest sole Colbert and a poulet en casserole—the Club chef he assured her had nothing to learn from Saint James’s Street and Pall Mall; to the claret he rendered all the honors of a vintage wine; in a word, John Endor’s look of high ascetism did not taboo the minor arts of life.
It was this zest in everything which made him such a lovable companion. The seer, the visionary, was a man of the world. In spite of his dedication, in spite of the inward fire of the prophets of old, he had that subtle appreciation of the human comedy which is one of the final graces of a liberal education.
This evening, as always, he was charming. Helen could not help yielding to his attraction, no matter how strict her guard against it; she could not help being fascinated by his mental outlook and being lulled, even a little dangerously, by the personality of the man she loved. Listening to him now made it seem almost tragic that one should have to put the question she had summoned him to ask.
Delays are perilous. Twice before the enchanted meal was through she was at the point of sending for the evening paper, so that she might learn the truth. The fallibility of the newspaper press was still her hope. But while he talked as only he could, it seemed an act of barbarism to open the case so crudely. While his fancy and his humor played upon a hundred things how could one sidetrack him with such a doubt? There was some absurd mistake. High faith in this hero bade her take care.
Almost before she knew that she had let a precious moment go, she found herself bitterly rueing the fact. One of his odd, quick, unforeseen turns brought her up dead against an impasse she would have given much to avoid.
Plunging an impetuous hand in his coat, he suddenly produced a half sheet of notepaper, and tossed it over the table into her lap. “High time,” he laughed, “we let the dear old Morning Post into our secret de Polichinelle.”
She unfolded the slip of paper and read with a pang of dismay:
An engagement is announced between John Endor, only son of the late Myles Endor, Wyndham, Middleshire, and Lady Elizabeth Endor, and Helen Mary, eldest daughter of James Lee Sholto and Mrs. Sholto of Longmore, Richmond, Virginia, U. S. A.
“Will it meet the case?” The question was whimsically direct, even without the enforcement of his amused eyes.
The blood burned slowly vivid in her face. Happily the quality or absence of quality in the electric light prevented his seeing it.
“Don’t you think?”—in a gay whisper.
There was no escape. “One shrinks——” Her will cut the phrase in two. To have completed it would have been to say too little or too much.
“Everybody’s secret,” he laughed.
As she felt the knife edge of the irony lurking in the situation, she gave a little gasp. There was only one thing for her now. She must harden her heart.
“I hadn’t realized,” she said, in her soft voice, a delicious blend of the Old World and the New, “that your speech to-day was going to be so important.”
“Quite the last word for it,” he said, lightly. “A heart-to-heart talk, don’t you know, with a few friends and constituents. For some dark reason they insisted on giving me a lovely bit of old Sheffield plate—and a scroll. One mustn’t forget the scroll. Perhaps the birds have been talking. Anyhow, the Chairman thought the salver would look very nice on the dining-room sideboard of a newly married couple!”
He waited for her laugh, but only one tiny segment of her mind was listening.
“It fills the entire placard of the Evening Press.” She dare not look at him. There was a clutch at her heart.
“What! My jawbation! Shade of the sea serpent and the giant gooseberry!”
She felt the beat of her heart strike upwards. Her throat was filled by it. He sounded hardly more than a laughing, irresponsible boy. And yet the hour was surely near when even his lighter grace notes must prove organ tones in the strained ear of the time.
III
THE fates were at her elbow. As she sent for the Evening Press, she realized that fact to the full. Afraid to turn again to her occupation of the last three hours, the weighing of her love for John Endor, she was yet unable to escape the challenge of a dire event. Truly a woman, yet beyond all things she was an American citizen. No matter what his spells, she could never marry a man of these ideas. Her country must stand first.
The Evening Press arrived. Folding back the sheet, the rather unpretty sheet with its crude headlines and blurred ink, she placed a finger on the fatal paragraph.
While he read she watched him. But his face was hidden by the paper and it was not until a slow perusal was at an end that it came again into view. So great was the change that it struck her almost with fear. The allure was gone; such a depth of pallor had the look of death itself. But the eyes were blazing and the large, mobile orator’s mouth was clenched in a vain effort to control its emotion.
“Blackguards!” he gasped. She saw that in his eyes were tears. Her brain was numb, yet the glow racing through her veins was sheer joy. The question was answered; every doubt was laid. So much for the woman. And in that moment the woman was paramount. But in the balanced mind, delicately poised, acutely commonsensible, was now a concern beyond the personal. What was the meaning of it all?
“I knew of course ... I felt ... that you had been ... misreported.”... Her words were tentative, inadequate. Painfully watching the man opposite she knew only too well that the John Endor of three minutes back might never have been. The play, the interplay, of changing lights upon his face and in his eyes were beyond her ken. Almost for the first time she began to have a real perception of the infinities within him, of that central power which could sweep a great audience off its feet.
Of a sudden he sprang fiercely from his chair. “It’s devilish!” His voice was hoarse. “Absolutely devilish!”
Hardly had he used the words when the pain in her eyes reined him back. Abruptly as he had risen, he sat down again at the table. “I beg your pardon!” he said. “But, you see, it’s a stab in the back—from the world’s most accomplished assassin.”
She saw that his lips were white and that his face was drawn.
“Mayn’t it be just a mere accident?” Courage was needed to say anything. To say that called for much.
He laughed harshly. The gay irresponsible boy might never have been. “Accidents don’t happen to the Universal Press[2].”
“But why shouldn’t they—once in a while?” Her voice had a maternal caress in it.
“The U. P. is the most efficient machine ever invented. It lives for and by efficiency—damnable word! That’s the talisman with which it sways five continents. God help us all! No accident here.”
“Can you really be sure?”
“Internal evidence. The few casual, cut-and-dried phrases I used, hardly more than a formal returning of thanks, have been so twisted round that they are the exact opposite of what was meant.”
“Perhaps there’s been a confusion of names.”
“No! no! Much too circumstantial—John Endor—luncheon—this afternoon—Blackhampton Town Hall. There’s no excuse. And the trick is so simple, so easy, once you condescend to its use. Take that final phrase, ‘I believe in the Sword.’”
Helen waited eagerly.
“Knock out the first letter of the last word and you have the phrase I used.”
She was blinded for a moment by the flood of light let in by this concrete instance. It went far to prove that his suspicions, which by nature he was the last man in the world to harbor, were not without warrant. Such a rebuttal of the charge against himself was complete, final; at the same time Helen Sholto had a very strong reason of her own for declining to accept all the implications that now arose.
In a sense she herself was an employee of the Universal Press. For nearly two years she had been one of the private secretaries of Saul Hartz, the master spirit of the U. P.—its organizer of victory. Moreover to the Colossus, as he was playfully called, she had a deep sense of loyalty. To her he had always seemed a truly great man. Moving up and down the intensive London world, it was no new thing to hear harshly criticized the mighty organization of international newspapers of which he was the head. More than once she had heard its motives impugned, but she had shrewdly perceived that so great a force in the life of the time could be wielded only at a price. To Helen Sholto the Colossus stood forth the beau idéal of a considerate, almost princely, employer. His foes were many, but none denied his genius. And in the sight of Helen he was so considerable a man, the admiration he excited was so keen, her sense of gratitude was so lively and so deep, that it was almost lèse majesté to traverse his political acts.
It had always been the aim of the Colossus to keep as much as possible in the background of affairs. None the less, in his own despite, he was becoming known as the secret power which propelled many a great movement of the time. It was said that he created and directed public opinion on more than one continent—to such an extent that he made and unmade governments; enforced and canceled treaties; in a word, he and the International Newspaper Ring that he controlled had become a menace to the world. But Helen Sholto in all her dealings with this man had never had reason to suspect that he claimed for himself these plenary powers.
Sensitive as she was for John Endor and jealous for his growing reputation, it now became her clear duty to defend Saul Hartz. She believed him to be an honest man. Had one doubt infected her mind she could not have served him. But in the immediate presence of her fiancé’s terrible indictment she lost the power to marshal her ideas. Womanlike she grew a little wounded by such a condemnation of the Colossus and all his works.
Granted that the blow had shaken John to the foundations and making allowance for a vivid temperament, she could have wished in this tragic hour that the sufferer had shown a little more regard for her feelings. But she had only to exhibit those feelings, or as much of them as pride would allow, for this impulsive child-of-a-man to be on his knees.
Humbly he owned that his sense of outrage had carried him completely away. He should have remembered that Mr. Hartz was her patron and friend. A naïf, almost boyish apology, bound her wound, wiped away her tears. His outburst was freely forgiven. Perhaps it was forgiven the more freely inasmuch as Helen felt quite sure in her own mind that she would soon be able to clear one hero of the charges brought against him by the other.
IV
“I ’LL ring up the office at once.” Helen rose impulsively. “They must know what a dreadful blunder the U. P. reporter has made. I’ll get through if I can to Mr. Gage, the editor, and tell him that on no account must the Planet come out with the speech in that form. I’ll also get through to Mr. Jevons, the chief editor of the U. P., and ask him to lose no time in withdrawing their version, and circulating an absolute contradiction. And as soon as I see the Chief himself, which should be to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock, I’ll ask him personally to do what he can to put things right.”
John Endor pressed her hand. It was more than homage to the woman he loved, it was a tribute, almost involuntary, to her decision, her fine capacity, her clear good sense. Of the Colossus it had been said that his fairy godmother had given him a rare faculty of choosing the heaven-sent instrument. Even in the sight of John Endor this able woman had never shone quite so much as in this crisis.
Forsaking a favorite iced pudding and hot chocolate sauce, she went there and then to the telephone box. Endor, alone at the table, sat a picture of dismay. He had a full share of the egoism inseparable from a man who believes intensely in himself. It was his sense of election that lay at the root of his power. He was an elemental besides; his mind was a thing of wide curves, moving on broad lines of right and wrong. For one in essence so primitive, it would have been hard to exaggerate the force of the blow.
The enemy was out in the open at last. Sitting there in a thrall of sudden darkness, that was his thought. The Colossus to whom in the spirit of Sir Galahad he had offered battle was known as a deadly and a subtle foe. To such an extent had he centralized power, so absolute was his control of the wires, to such perfection had he brought his “stunts,” his “propaganda,” and all the rest of the paraphernalia, which so easily fouled public opinion at its source, that it was said that he could kill a reputation as easily as he could make one.
For some little time past, Endor had suspected that he was on the “Index.” More than once had he challenged the bona fides of the U. P.; more than once had he thrown down the gage to the all-powerful newspaper ring which was now proposing to link up every continent. Moreover, in the phrase of a recent speech, he had bitterly attacked “its Vehmgericht of assassins.” That speech, made to Helen’s dismay, and of which she was far from realizing the true significance, would not, he knew, be forgiven. Nothing wounds like the truth. To Helen, however, it was part of his “platform,” an amusingly, over-emphasized article of political faith. She did not know, she could not be expected to know, that it was a deliberate offering of battle to the most potent evil in the life of the time. It was David vs. Goliath. The primitive sling and pebbles had hardly a chance, but David was upheld by the divine courage of youth and by a pure cause.
Already he was in the arena. He could feel the horrid breath of the monster on his face. One flick he had had of a grisly paw, just one little flick below the belt—there were no Queensberry rules for the U. P.—and he was nearly out. He was nearly out even before the game had really started.
Gasping in an agony that seemed hardly less than mortal, he realized now the nature of the odds. The force of that first playful little tap had almost killed him. However, he must rise from the tan. If he didn’t look out, those cloven hoofs would be pressing out his life.
There was no time to rest, even for a little while. Let him get up, keep going somehow. He must fight on.
V
HELEN was at the telephone a long ten minutes. She returned to find her guest in a kind of stupor. His legs were stretched out; his eyes shut.
“Such a tiring day he must have had, poor darling!” was her thought, as her strong, cheerful, assured voice brought him back with a start to the moment’s pressure.
“I managed to get through to the Office,” she said, sitting down again to the table. “Mr. Gage, unfortunately, was not there. And, really”—a clear note of vexation began to strike through the optimism this woman of the world imposed habitually upon herself—“sometimes they can be very trying, even in Cosmos Alley[3]. I explained what the situation was—told them just what had happened—gave them your word that the U. P. version was hopelessly inaccurate, and that on no account must it appear in to-morrow’s Planet.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, faintly.
“Well, Mr. Sub-Editor Wingrove, hidebound little pedant”—the note of vexation was growing more dominant—“said he could not take any responsibility in the matter, but as soon as Mr. Gage arrived he would lay the facts before him.”
“Were you able to find out whether it is their intention to reprint the speech as given in the Evening Press?”
“That, of course, is what I tried to do. I put the question, point blank. But I couldn’t get anything definite. The fact is I don’t think Mr. Wingrove knew, but a sub-editor is like a policeman, he’ll never own a limit to his knowledge. He hummed and hawed and grew very Planeto-pontifico, the little donkey. However, I clinched the matter finally by making him promise to ring me up as soon as Mr. Gage came in.”
“What time is he expected?”
“As a rule, he looks in at the Office between ten and eleven.”
“When does the paper go to press?”
“About midnight—the first edition.”
Endor looked at his watch. “Only five minutes to nine at present.”
“There’s any amount of time.” The note of reassurance was very stimulating. “And if we can’t get something definite out of them in the course of the next two hours, I’ll go down to the office and see Mr. Gage myself. Now, let me get you some coffee and a little of the Club brandy—if you’ll condescend to it—and then I’ll see what can be done with the U. P.”
“Please, please, finish your dinner before you do anything further.”
“There’s not a moment to lose with the U. P.,” she said decisively. “I tried to get through five minutes ago, but the line was engaged. The provincial Mercury goes to press at eleven, and they may raise all sorts of difficulties. After Mr. Sub-Editor Wingrove, one foresees big trouble in Universe Lane. However, the Mercury isn’t the Planet. All the same, the U. P. is the U. P., and every moment counts.”
Again she left the table, in spite of all that Endor could do to detain her, gave orders to a servant, and returned at once to the telephone box. Half stunned as Endor still was by the enemy’s first blow, he had never admired this woman’s virile sense so much. What a prize he had won! As the thought came to him now, it was balm for a deep wound. Quite apart from her attraction and her charm such courage and such competence were beyond price to a public man.
Close upon that reflection came one less happy. This rare woman belonged to the enemy’s camp. It was so like the Colossus to have this fine instrument under his hand. Therein lay one of the secrets of his power. And what could be clearer evidence of his Machiavellian quality? How artful the mask he had contrived for his purposes, when even the feminine intuitions of a Helen Sholto were so much at fault that she could bring herself blindly to serve him! To her Saul Hartz was not merely an honest man, he was a hero, a demigod.
By the time he had drunk some coffee, and sipped a little brandy, he began to feel more himself. Better able to look the situation in the face, if not to grapple with it, he began mentally to recite his secret formula. The gods approve the depth, and not the tumult of the soul[2q]. Never had this incantation been known to fail. More than once, even as a boy, it had enabled him to hitch his poor, at times half crazy, wagon to a star.
It did so now. When Helen returned to the room which the other diners had already forsaken, she found him calm. Her ten minutes’ absence had wrought in him a palpable change for the better.
“Some pow-wow with the U. P.” Her laugh was light, but it could not quite conceal a powerful undercurrent of annoyance. “Mr. Fuller himself! Up till now, one has always had a high respect for his intelligence, but really he can be crass!”
“To order—no doubt.”
“No,” she said quickly, “believe me, there is not the slightest reason to think that.” He was forced to admire a loyalty that would admit no breath of innuendo. “I am convinced it is no more than the red tape of the high official. The truth is, of course, they are all terribly afraid of the Chief.”
“That’s easily understandable.”
“Most unluckily in this case, they simply decline to act without his explicit orders.”
“What! They take it upon themselves to publish a speech that has never been made. And they know, of course, that I have to speak to-morrow at Hellington.”
“Yes, I told them all that. But the rule of the office forbids their canceling a special wire—unless they have Mr. Hartz’s own authority to do so.”
“Quite!” The voice of Endor grew grim. “And they don’t need to be told that it may be absolutely impossible to get that authority by eleven o’clock.”
“Of course. I made a strong point of that. Finally, I got Mr. Fuller’s promise to keep your speech off the machines until a quarter to twelve. That is the very latest moment he can allow. But at least it gives us a little more time in which to do something.”
“Pray, what can one do?”
“We must get through at once to the Chief himself.”
“To Hartz?”
“Yes, to the mountain! Miss Mahomet is now going to ring up Carlton House Terrace.”
Before Endor could interpose any real effort to hold her back, she was off again to the telephone.
The Club brandy continued to soothe his fretted nerves, but the calmer he grew, the higher his conviction mounted that the plot was deep laid, and that one woman, of no matter what will or what capacity, would not be allowed to undo it. All the same, it would be instructive to see how the game was played. The predestined victim could take at least a morbid zest in observing the workings of “the machine.” It had hardly started to move as yet, but all too soon his head would be in the basket.
Helen was back this time in three minutes. She looked decidedly crestfallen.
“Such bad luck! Of course, one guessed he’d be dining out. But they don’t know where. At one of his clubs, they think, and he may have gone on to the opera. Still, they can’t say. They only know that he may return at any time from now on until after midnight.”
Endor smiled rather sadly. “Never mind. Let us accept the omen. There can be no contending with Destiny.”
“On the contrary,” she said bravely, fighting his fatalism, “I have fully made up my mind to hunt down the Chief in the next two hours—wherever he is to be found. Only he can stop the Planet and the U. P.”
“He may decline to do so—even if you run him to earth.”
“But why in the world should you think that?” Her voice was full of challenge. “An honest man is bound—is simply bound—to stop them.”
“I agree,” said Endor, abstractedly. “I humbly beg the pardon of the Colossus.”
“Please beg mine—for thinking—thinking—thinking!”
He kissed her hand. “I’m hardly myself to-night,” he said.
“You’ve had a really tiresome day,” she said, gently; “what with a journey to Blackhampton and back again—not to mention the luncheon, the presentation, and now this horrid affair! You look quite worn out.”
Recognizing that he must pull himself together, he proceeded rather heroically to do so. He was upheld, moreover, by Helen’s strength of purpose, the working of her active will, of her high and keen intelligence. And yet, at the back of everything, he felt that all they did would be futile. This was only a beginning, the first turn of the wheel. Now that a cog had caught him, the devil’s work would go on until his life had been crushed out. But she could not be expected to know that. And in this early phase he ought not to make any such admission, even to himself. It was weak. No matter what happened he must go down fighting.
“What’s on to-night at the opera?” said Helen. Under her chair lay the discarded Evening Press. She picked it up. “The Russian ballet. He is quite likely to be there. If he is, he may not be home before midnight.”
For a moment she considered the question in its various aspects. And then she said, “I’d better go there and see if I can find him.”
Endor shook his head. “Looking,” he said, “for a pin in a truss of hay to search for people at the opera.”
“He has a box. More than once he’s lent it to me. If he’s there, I’ll find him.”
A growing sense of the futility of all they could do was now overpowering Endor. But he was forced to admire the noble zeal which was determined not to leave one thing undone.
Knowing argument to be vain, he was content merely to insist upon the finishing of the meal before she did anything else. But it was only under protest that she could be brought to do even that. If Mr. Hartz was not at the opera, the sooner they learned that fact the better.
VI
ENDOR, against his private judgment and the will of Helen, accompanied her to Covent Garden. She was sure that after such a day he ought to go straight to bed. Curiously temperamental, she knew him to be, but never had she seen him so completely “bowled out.” Like all people who live on their nerves, he was poised on a very fine thread; yet this threat of collapse was hardly justified by the thing that had occurred. He saw in it more than the facts seemed on the surface to warrant. She, on the contrary, was sure that a word from the Chief would put the whole thing right.
It was ten o’clock when they reached Covent Garden. Helen, by dint of tact amounting to diplomacy which she brought to bear on divers officials, was able at last to send one of them with an urgent message to Mr. Hartz’s box. Soon, however, the answer came that Mr. Hartz was not there, and that to the best of the messenger’s information he had not been there that evening.
A rebuff, for which Helen was half prepared, left her undaunted. They turned down the street to Universe Lane, on the off-chance that the Mercury might be able to throw light on the whereabouts of the great man. This the Mercury could not do; nor was the Office itself in the adjacent Cosmos Alley able to provide a clue to the movements of the august controller of the U. P.
“We’ll now draw his clubs,” said Helen, undefeatedly. “He may be at the Game in Piccadilly playing bridge. Or he may be in Pall Mall smoking a quiet cigar at the Imperium.”
Both, alas! were drawn blank. The Colossus was not nor had been that evening at either. “Dead out of luck, aren’t we?” said Helen. “It’s very vexing.”
One other course only occurred to her now. That was to go on to Carlton House Terrace, and if Mr. Hartz had not returned home to await his arrival. They went there accordingly only to learn that he had not yet come in; moreover, so uncertain, as a rule, were his nocturnal movements that the butler did not care to commit himself as to the hour his master was likely to do so. “May be here any moment, miss, or he may even not be here at——” The butler’s discretion did not allow him to complete his sentence.
“Well, I’ll wait for him,” said Helen, with an air of quiet decision, “for an hour, at any rate.” She glanced at a watch on her wrist. “Nearly eleven already.”
She went down the steps to the taxi and John Endor. To him she made her intention known. “And you,” she said, “must go straight home to bed. You are fagged out. Now mind you don’t worry about this. A word from the Chief will clear up everything. Forget it all. Promise me you will. And for my part I promise that it shall be put right. Good-night.”
“But how will you get home?”
“My tube to South Kensington runs till one o’clock. And I’m quite used to being out late. Good-night.”
“Darling!” he whispered, hoarsely. “You darling!”
She stood a moment by the curb to watch him drive away.
VII
AS Helen was shown into Saul Hartz’s library a clock on the chimneypiece struck eleven.
“May I get you anything, miss?” said the butler, to whom she was well known.
“Thank you, Jennings—no.” She shivered slightly; it was a chill September night.
Jennings gave the fire a poke and retired.
Helen took a book from a table, turned up a reading lamp and sat down. At first so strong was the current of her thought that she did not look at the book. Her whole mind was fixed upon the forty precious minutes that could be allowed for Mr. Hartz’s return. If he tarried beyond that time it might be too late for him to be of use—at any rate, so far as the U. P. was concerned. In regard to the Planet he might, perhaps, be allowed another two hours.
Severe good sense forbade giving her thoughts much rein. Worry was not going to help. Besides, she had one of those disciplined minds, which, in spite of the moment’s pressure, are not allowed to riot. She looked at the book in her hand. Its title was Essays in Contribution to a Permanent Peace, its author, John Endor. Publication was not due for another fortnight, but an advance copy had been sent already to the Planet by the book’s publishers in the hope of an early review.
Coincidence, brain wave, sixth, seventh, eighth, nth sense, had drawn her fingers subconsciously, in semidarkness to this volume. That it was now in her hand was not due to the fact that she had read the title on the cover. The book’s coming open at this particular place was less a fruit of chance than of the fact that a marker had been inserted.
A mere glance disclosed that much of page 204 was heavily underscored in red ink.
“The most acute problem of this vexed time is the ever-growing power of the newspaper press. Legislation of a drastic kind is needed to cope with certain newspaper ‘bosses’ in Great Britain and America and their combinations, national and international, of periodicals, agencies, special correspondents and their sinister antennae, which persistently foul at the source the wells of truth. So long as the infernal machinery which creates and molds public opinion and now aspires to govern the world can be set in motion by the Luciferian minds which control it, minds whose sole merit is a prodigious development of the modern business brain and its infinite capacity for combination and adjustment, hope of a stable peace on any of the five continents of this unlucky planet is out of the question. It cannot be said too often that such an engine as the Universal Press is a power for evil and a dire menace to civilization.”
To the eyes that read these words they were written in letters of fire. They seemed to burn themselves in Helen’s brain. Could this terrible indictment be true? Was it justified? At least it was the considered verdict of the man she had promised to marry. And it was directed against one who had her whole allegiance, one who crowned with a princely reward her loyal labors.
