The Council of Justice | Page 9

ever seen. Our
civilization is a wonderful thing,' he added, cryptically.
'One man,' said Maynard, 'asked me in very bad French if the conduct
of the Four Just Men was actionable!'
At that moment, another question was being put to Falmouth by a
leader of the Red Hundred, and Falmouth, a little ruffled in his temper,
replied with all the urbanity that he could summon.
'You may have your meetings,' he said with some asperity, 'so long as
you do not utter anything calculated to bring about a breach of the
peace, you may talk sedition and anarchy till you're blue in the face.
Your English friends will tell you how far you can go--and I might say
you can go pretty far--you can advocate the assassination of kings, so
long as you don't specify which king; you can plot against governments
and denounce armies and grand dukes; in fact, you can do as you
please--because that's the law.'
'What is--a breach of the peace?' asked his interrogator, repeating the
words with difficulty.
Another detective explained.
Francois and one Rudulph Starque escorted the Woman of Gratz to her
Bloomsbury lodgings that night, and they discussed the detective's
answer.
This Starque was a big man, strongly built, with a fleshy face and little

pouches under his eyes. He was reputed to be well off, and to have a
way with women.
'So it would appear,' he said, 'that we may say "Let the kings be slain",
but not "Let the king be slain"; also that we may preach the downfall of
governments, but if we say "Let us go into this cafe"--how do you call
it?--"public-house, and be rude to the proprietaire" we commit
a--er--breach of the peace--ne c'est pas?
'It is so,' said Francois, 'that is the English way.'
'It is a mad way,' said the other.
They reached the door of the girl's pension. She had been very quiet
during the walk, answering questions that were put to her in
monosyllables. She had ample food for thought in the events of the
night.
Francois bade her a curt good night and walked a little distance. It had
come to be regarded as Starque's privilege to stand nearest the girl.
Now he took her slim hands in his and looked down at her. Some one
has said the East begins at Bukarest, but there is a touch of the Eastern
in every Hungarian, and there is a crudeness in their whole attitude to
womankind that shocks the more tender susceptibilities of the Western.
'Good night, little Maria,' he said in a low voice. 'Some day you will be
kinder, and you will not leave me at the door.' She looked at him
steadfastly. 'That will never be,' she replied, without a tremor.
CHAPTER III.
Jessen, alias Long
The front page of every big London daily was again black with the
story of the Four Just Men.
'What I should like,' said the editor of the Megaphone, wistfully, 'is a
sort of official propaganda from the Four--a sort of inspired manifesto

that we could spread into six columns.'
Charles Garret, the Megaphone's 'star' reporter, with his hat on the back
of his head, and an apparently inattentive eye fixed on the electrolier,
sniffed.
The editor looked at him reflectively.
'A smart man might get into touch with them.'
Charles said, 'Yes,' but without enthusiasm.
'If it wasn't that I knew you,' mused the editor, 'I should say you were
afraid.'
'I am,' said Charles shamelessly.
'I don't want to put a younger reporter on this job,' said the editor sadly,
'it would look bad for you; but I'm afraid I must.'
'Do,' said Charles with animation, 'do, and put me down ten shillings
toward the wreath.'
He left the office a few minutes later with the ghost of a smile at the
corners of his mouth, and one fixed determination in the deepest and
most secret recesses of his heart. It was rather like Charles that, having
by an uncompromising firmness established his right to refuse work of
a dangerous character, he should of his own will undertake the task
against which he had officially set his face. Perhaps his chief knew him
as well as he knew himself, for as Charles, with a last defiant snort,
stalked from the office, the smile that came to his lips was reflected on
the editor's face.
Walking through the echoing corridors of Megaphone House, Charles
whistled that popular and satirical song, the chorus of which runs--
By kind permission of the Megaphone,
By kind permission of the Megaphone. Summer comes when Spring

has gone,
And the world goes spinning on,
By permission of the Daily Megaphone.
Presently, he found himself in Fleet Street, and, standing at the edge of
the curb, he answered a taxi-driver's expectant