Chapter III: Part 3

“No, young man, that cannot happen. Whenever a commission is offered me--and I presume this is true of the other members--I first of all call for the evidence and weigh it carefully. I once even declined a certain commission because of reasonable doubt. It is true, I was afterwards proved wrong, but the principle was there, you see. Why, the Bureau could not last a year if it were not impregnably founded on right. I, for one, could not look my wife in the eyes nor take my innocent children in my arms did I believe it to be otherwise with the Bureau and the commissions I carry out for the Bureau.”

Next, after the ex-professor, came Haas, livid and hungry-looking, to report progress.

“The Chief is headed towards Chicago,” he began. “He ran his auto clear through to Albany and got away on the New York Central. His Pullman berth was for Chicago. I was too late to follow him, so I got a wire to Schwartz in the city here, who caught the next train. Also I telegraphed to the head of the Chicago Bureau--you know him?”

“Yes; Starkington.”

“I telegraphed him, telling him the situation and to put a couple of members after the Chief. Then I came on to New York in order to get Harrison. The two of us leave for Chicago the first thing in the morning, if, in the meantime, no word comes from Starkington that they have got him.”

“But you have exceeded your instructions,” Hall objected. “I heard Drag--the Chief explicitly tell you that Schwartz and Harrison were to assist, and that the aid of the rest of the organization was to be called for only after the three of you had failed, and failed for a considerable time. You haven’t failed yet. You have not even really begun.”

“Evidently you know little about our system,” Haas replied. “It has always been our custom when a chase leads to other cities to call upon any of the members who may be in those cities.”

As Hall was about to speak, the deaf mute entered with a telegram addressed to Dragomiloff. Hall opened it and found it was from Starkington. He decoded it and then read it aloud to Haas.

“Has Haas gone crazy? Have received word from Haas that you
appointed him to execute you, that you are headed for Chicago, and
that I am to detail two members to fix you. Haas has never lied
before. He must be crazy. He may prove dangerous. See to him.”

“That is what Harrison said when I told him not an hour ago,” was Haas’s comment. “But I do not lie, and I am not crazy. You must fix this up, Mr. Hall.”

Assisted by Haas, Hall composed a reply.

“Haas is neither lunatic nor liar. What he says is correct.
Cooperate with him as requested.

Winter Hall, Temporary Secretary.”

“I’ll send it myself,” Haas said, as he rose to go.

A few minutes later Hall was telephoning to Grunya that her uncle was headed towards Chicago. This was followed by an interview with Harrison, who came privily to verify what Haas had told him, and who went away convinced.

Hall sat down alone to think things over. He glanced about at the book-cluttered walls and table, and the old feeling of unreality came over him. How could it be possible that there was an Assassination Bureau composed of ethical lunatics? And how could it be possible that he, who had set out to destroy this Assassination Bureau, was now actually managing it from its headquarters, and directing the pursuit and probable killing of the man who had created the Bureau, who was the father of the woman he loved, and whom he wished to save for his daughter’s sake--how could it be possible?

And to prove that it was all true and real, a second telegram arrived from the head of the Chicago branch.

“Who in hell are you?” it demanded.

“Temporary acting secretary appointed by the Chief,” was Hall’s
reply.

Hall was awakened from sleep several hours later by a third Chicago telegram.

“Everything too irregular. Decline further communication with you.
Where is the Chief?

Starkington.”

“Chief gone to Chicago. Watch incoming trains and get him to verify
instructions to Haas. I don’t care if you never communicate.”

Hall flashed back.

By noon of next day Starkington’s messages began to arrive thick and fast.

“Have met Chief. He verifies everything. Accept my apology. He
broke my arm and got away. Have commissioned the four Chicago
members to get him.”

“Schwartz has just arrived.”

“Think Chief may head west. Am wiring St. Louis, Denver, and San
Francisco to watch for him. This may prove expensive. Forward money
for contingencies.”

“Dempsey has three broken ribs and right arm paralyzed. Paralysis
not permanent. Chief got away.”

“Chief is still in Chicago but cannot locate him.”

“St. Louis, Denver, and San Francisco have replied. They tell me I
am crazy. Will you please verify?”

This last wire had been preceded by messages from the three mentioned cities, all incredulous of Starkington’s sanity, and Hall had replied to them as he originally replied to Starkington.

It was while this muddle was pending that Hall, struck by an idea, sent a long telegram to Starkington and made a still greater muddle.

“Stop pursuit of Chief. Call a conference of Chicago members and
consider following proposition. Judgment of execution of Chief
irregular. Chief passed judgment on himself. Why? He must be crazy.
It will not be right to kill one who has done no wrong. What wrong
has Chief done? Where is your sanction?”

That this was a poser, and that it stopped Chicago’s hand, was proved by the reply.

“Have talked it over. You are right. Chief’s judgment on self
invalid. Chief has done no wrong. Shall leave him alone. Dempsey’s
arm is better. All are agreed that Chief must be crazy.”

Hall was jubilant. He had played these ethical madmen to the top of their madness. Dragomiloff was safe. That evening he took Grunya to the theatre and to supper and encouraged her with sanguine hopes for her uncle. But on his return home he found a sheaf of telegrams awaiting him.

“Have received wire from Chicago calling off Chief deal. Your last
wire contradicts this. What are we to conclude?

St. Louis.”

“Chicago now cancels orders against Chief. By our rules no order
ever canceled. What is the matter?

Denver.”

“Where is Chief? Why doesn’t he communicate with us? Chicago by
latest wire has receded from earlier position. Is everybody crazy?
Or is it a joke?

San Francisco.”

“Chief still in Chicago. Met Carthey on State Street. Tried to
entice Carthey into following him. Then followed Carthey and
reproached him. Carthey said nothing doing. Chief very angry.
Insists killing order be carried out.

Starkington.”

“Chief encountered Carthey later. Committed unprovoked assault on
Carthey. Carthey not injured.

Starkington.”

“Chief called on me. Upbraided me bitterly. Told him your message
had changed our minds. Chief furious. Is he crazy?

Starkington.”

“Your interference is spoiling everything. What right have you to
interfere? This must be rectified. What are you trying to do? Reply.

Drago.”

“Trying to do the right thing. You cannot violate your own rules.
Members have no sanction to perform act.”

was Hall’s reply.

“Bosh.”

was Dragomiloff’s last word for the night.

_Chapter VIII_

It was not till eleven on the following morning that Hall received word of Dragomiloff’s next play. It came from the Chief himself.

“Have sent this message to all branches. Have given it in person to
Chicago branch which will verify. I believe that our organization
is wrong. I believe all its work has been wrong. I believe every
member, wittingly or not, to be wrong. Consider this your sanction
and do your duty.”

Soon the verdicts of the branches began to pour in on Hall, who smiled as he forwarded them to Dragomiloff. One and all were agreed that no reason had been advanced for taking the Chief’s life.

“A belief is not a sin,” said New Orleans.

“It is not incorrectness of a belief but insincerity of a belief
that makes a crime,” was Boston’s contribution to the symposium.

“Chief’s honest belief is no wrong,” concluded St. Louis.

“Ethical disagreement does not constitute any sanction whatever,”
announced Denver.

While San Francisco flippantly remarked, “The only thing for the
Chief to do is to retire from control or forget it.”

Dragomiloff replied by sending out another general message. It ran:

“My belief is about to take form of deeds. Believing organization
to be wrong, I shall stamp out organization. I shall personally
destroy members, and if necessary shall have recourse to the
police. Chicago will verify this to all branches. I shall shortly
afford even stronger sanction for branches to proceed against me.”

Hall waited for the replies with keen interest, confessing to himself his inability to forecast what this society of righteous madmen would conclude next. It turned out to be a division of opinion. Thus San Francisco:

“Sanction O.K. Await instructions.”

Denver advised:

“Recommend Chicago branch examine Chief’s sanity. We have good
sanatoriums up here.”

New Orleans complained:

“Is everybody crazy? We are without sufficient data. Will somebody
straighten this matter out?”

Said Boston:

“In this crisis we must keep our heads. Perhaps Chief is ill. This
must be ascertained satisfactorily before any decision is reached.”

It was after this that Starkington wired to suggest that Haas, Schwartz, and Harrison be returned to New York. To this Hall agreed, but hardly had he got the telegram off, when a later one from Starkington changed the complexion of the situation.

“Carthey has just been murdered. Police looking for slayer but
have no clues. It is our belief that Chief is responsible. Please
forward to all branches.”

Hall, as the focal communicating point of the branches, was now fairly swamped in a sea of telegrams. Twenty-four hours later Chicago had even more startling information.

“Schwartz throttled at three this afternoon. There is no doubt this
time of Chief. Police are pursuing him. So are we. Has dropped
from sight. All branches be on the lookout. It means trouble. Am
proceeding without sanction of branches, but should like same.”

And promptly the sanctions poured in on Hall. Dragomiloff had achieved his purpose. At last the ethical madmen were aroused and after him.

Hall himself was in a quandary, and cursed his ethical nature that made him value a promise. He was convinced, now, that Dragomiloff was really a lunatic, having burst forth from his quiet book-and-business life and become a homicidal maniac. That he had promised a maniac various things brought up the question whether or not, ethically, he was justified in breaking those promises. His common sense told him that he was justified--justified in informing the police, justified in bringing about the arrests of all the members of the Assassination Bureau, justified in anything that promised to put a stop to the orgy of killing that seemed impending. But above his common sense was his ethics, and at times he was convinced that he was as mad as any of the madmen with whom he dealt.

To add to his perplexity, Grunya, who managed to get his address from the telephone number he had given her, paid him a call.

“I have come to say goodbye,” was her introduction. “What comfortable rooms you have. And what a curious servant. He never spoke a word to me.”

“Goodbye?” Hall queried. “Are you going back to Edge Moor?”

She shook her head and smiled airily.

“No; Chicago. I am going to find Uncle, and to help him if I can. What last word have you received? Is he still in Chicago?”

“By the last word....” Hall hesitated. “Yes, by the last word he had not left Chicago. But you can’t be of any help, and it is unwise of you to go.”

“I’m going just the same.”

“Let me advise you, dear.”

“Not until the year is up--except in business matters. In fact I came to turn my little affairs over to you. I go on the Twentieth Century this afternoon.”

Argument with Grunya was useless, but Hall was too sensible to quarrel, and parted from her in appropriate lover fashion, remaining in the headquarters of the Assassination Bureau to manage its lunatic affairs.

Nothing happened of moment for another twenty-four hours. Then it came, an avalanche of messages, precipitated by one from Starkington.

“Chief still here. Broke Harrison’s neck today. Police do not
connect case with Schwartz. Please call for help on all branches.”

Hall sent out this general call, and an hour later received the following from Starkington:

“Broke into hospital and killed Dempsey. Has definitely left city.
Haas in pursuit. St. Louis take warning.”

“Rastenaff and Pillsworthy start immediately,” Boston informed Hall.

“Lucoville has been dispatched to Chicago,” said New Orleans.

“Not sending anybody. Are waiting for Chief to arrive,” St. Louis
advised.

And then Grunya’s Chicago wail:

“Have you any later news?”

He did not answer this, but very shortly received a second from her.

“Do please help me if you have heard.”

Hall replied:

“Has left Chicago. Probably heading towards St. Louis. Let me join
you.”

And to this, in turn, he received no answer, and was left to contemplate the flight of the Chief of the Assassins, pursued by his daughter and the assassins of four cities, and heading towards the nest of assassins waiting in St. Louis.

Another day went by, and another. The van of pursuers arrived in St. Louis, but there was no sign of Dragomiloff. Haas was reported missing. Grunya could find no trace of her uncle. Only the head of the branch remained in Boston, and he informed Hall that he would follow if anything further happened. In Chicago there was left only Starkington with his broken arm.

But at the end of another forty-eight hours, Dragomiloff struck again. Rastenaff and Pillsworthy had arrived in St. Louis in the early morning. Each, perforated by a small-calibre bullet, had been carried from his Pullman berth by men sent from the coroner’s office. The two St. Louis members were likewise dead. The head of that branch, the only survivor, sent the information. Haas had reappeared, but no explanation of his four days’ disappearance was vouchsafed. Dragomiloff had again dropped out of sight. Grunya was inconsolable and bombarded Hall with telegrams. The head of the Boston branch sent word that he had started. And so did Starkington, despite his injury. San Francisco was of the opinion that Denver would be the Chief’s next point, and sent two men there to reinforce; while Denver, of the same opinion, kept her two men in readiness.

All this made big inroads on the emergency fund of the Bureau, and it was with satisfaction that Hall, adhering to his instructions, wired sum after sum of money to the different men. If the pace were kept up, he decided, the Bureau would be bankrupt before the end of the year.

And then came a slack period. All members having gone to the West, and being in touch with each other there, nothing was left for Hall to do. He endured the suspense and idleness for a day or so; then, making financial arrangements and arranging with the deaf mute for the forwarding of telegrams, he closed up the headquarters of the Bureau and bought a ticket for St. Louis.

_Chapter IX_

In St. Louis, Hall found no change in the situation. Dragomiloff had not reappeared and everybody was waiting for something to happen. Hall attended a conference at Murgweather’s house. Murgweather was the head of the St. Louis branch, and lived with his family in a comfortable suburban bungalow. All were gathered when Hall arrived, and he immediately recognized Haas, the lean flame of a man, and Starkington he knew by the arm in splints and sling.

“Who is the man?” demanded Lucoville, the New Orleans member, when Hall was being introduced.

“Temporary Secretary of the Bureau,” Murgweather started to explain.

“It is entirely too irregular to suit me,” Lucoville snapped back. “He is not one of us. He has killed no man. He has passed no test of the organization. Not only is his appearance among us unprecedented, but for men who pursue such a hazardous vocation as ours his presence is a menace. And in connection with this, I wish to point out two things. First, by reputation he is known to all of us. I have nothing derogatory to say about his work in the world. I have read his books with interest, and, I may add, profit. His contributions to sociology have been distinct and distinctive. On the other hand, though, he is a socialist. He is called the ‘Millionaire Socialist.’ What does that mean? It means that he is out of touch with us and our principles of conduct. It means that he is a blind creature of Law. Law is his fetish. He grovels in the mire of ignorance and worships Law. To him, we, who are above the Law, are arch-offenders against the Law. Therefore, his presence bodes no good for us. He is bound to destroy us for the sake of his fetish. This is only in the nature of things. This is the dictate of both his personal and his philosophical temperament.

“And secondly, notice that of all times, it is in this time of crisis to the organization that he has chosen to intrude. Who has vouched for him? Who has admitted him to our secrets? Only one man, and that man the Chief, the one who is now bent on destroying us, who has already killed six of our members and who threatens to expose us to the police. This looks bad, very bad, for him and us. He is the enemy within our ranks. It is my suggestion that we put him away--”

“Pardon me, my dear Lucoville,” Murgweather interrupted. “This discussion is out of order. Mr. Hall is my guest.”

“All our heads are in the noose,” retorted the member from New Orleans. “And guest or no guest, this is no time for social amenities. The man is a spy. He is bent on destroying us. I charge him with it in his presence. What has he to say?”

Hall glanced around at the circle of suspicious faces, and, with the exception of Lucoville, he noted that none was angry. In truth, he decided, they were mad philosophers.

Murgweather made a vain effort to interpose, but was overruled.

“What have you to say, Mr. Hall?” Hanover, the head of the Boston branch, demanded.

“If I may sit down, I shall be glad to reply,” was Hall’s answer.

Apologies were rendered all around, and he was ensconced in a big armchair that was drawn up to form one of the circle.

“My reply, like the charges, will be under two heads,” he began. “In the first place, I _am_ bent on destroying your organization.”

This declaration was received in courteous silence, and the thought came into Hall’s mind that as philosophers and madmen they were certainly consistent. Emotion of every sort was absent from their faces. They waited at scholarly attention for the rest of his discourse. Even Lucoville’s flash of anger had been momentary, and he now sat as composed as the rest.

“Why I am bent on destroying your organization is too big a subject to open at this moment,” Hall continued. “I may say, in passing, that it is I who am responsible for your Chief’s changed conduct. When I discovered what an extreme ethicist he was, and each of the rest of you, I gave him fifty thousand dollars to accept a commission against himself. I furnished him with a sanction, ethical, of course, and the execution of the commission he turned over to Mr. Haas in my presence. Am I right, Mr. Haas?”

“You are.”

“And in my presence, the Chief informed you of my secretaryship. Am I right?”

“You are.”

“Now I come to the second head. Why did the Chief trust me with the headquarters management of the Bureau? The answer is simply and directly to the point. He knew that I was at least halfway as ethically mad as the rest of you. He knew that it was impossible for me to break my word. This I have proved by my subsequent actions. I have done my best to fulfill the office of acting secretary. I have forwarded all telegrams, general calls, and orders. I have granted all requests for funds. I shall continue to do as I have agreed, though I hold in detestation and horror, ethically, all that you stand for. I am doing what I believe to be right. Am I right?”

The pause that followed was very slight. Lucoville arose, walked over to him, and gravely extended his hand. The others did the same. Then Starkington preferred a request that adequate provision be made from the funds of the Bureau for the support of Dempsey’s widow and of Harrison’s widow and children. There was little discussion, and when the sums were decided upon, Hall wrote the checks and turned them over to Murgweather to be forwarded.

The question next taken up was that of the crisis and of how best to cope with the recreant Chief. In this Hall took no part, so that, lying back in his chair, he was able to observe and study these curious madmen. There were seven of them, and, with the exceptions of Haas and Lucoville, they had all the appearance of middle-aged, middle-class, scholarly gentlemen. He could not bring himself to realize that they were cold-blooded murderers, assassins for hire. And by the same token, it was incredible that they who were so calm should be the survivors of the deadly war that was being waged against them. Half of their number were already dead. Hanover was the sole survivor of Boston, Haas of New York, Starkington of Chicago, and their genial and bewhiskered host, Murgweather, of St. Louis.

“I enjoyed your last book,” Hall’s host leaned over and whispered to him in an interval. “Your argument for organization by industry as against organization by craft was unimpeachable. But to my notion, your exposition of the law of diminishing returns was rather lame. I have a bone to pick with you there.”

And this man was an assassin!--all these men were assassins! Hall could believe only by accepting them as lunatics. And going into town on the electric car after the meeting, he sat and talked with Haas, and was astounded to find him an ex-professor of Greek and Hebrew. Lucoville proved to be an expert in Oriental research. Hanover, he learned, had once been headmaster of one of the most select New England academies, while Starkington turned out to be an ex-newspaper editor of no mean reputation.

“But why have you, for instance, gone in for this mode of life?” Hall asked.

They were sitting on the outside of the car, which had arrived in the hotel district. The theatres were just letting out, and the sidewalks were crowded.

“Because it is right,” Haas answered, “and because it is a better means of livelihood than Greek and Hebrew. If I had my life all over again--”

But Hall was never to hear the end of that sentence. The car was stopped at a crossing for a moment, and Haas was suddenly electrified by something he had seen. With a flash of eye, and without a word or motion of farewell, he sprang from the car and was lost to view in the moving crowd.

Next morning Hall understood. In the paper was a sensational account of a mysterious attempt at murder. Haas was lying at the receiving hospital with a perforated lung. The doctors’ examination showed that he owed his life to an abnormal, misplaced heart. Had his heart been where it ought to have been, said the report, the bullet or missile would have passed through it. But this did not constitute the mystery. No one had heard the shot fired. Haas had suddenly slumped in the midst of a thick crowd. A woman, pressed against him in the jam, testified that at the moment before he fell she heard a faint, though sharp, metallic click. A man, in front of him, thought he had heard the click but was not sure.

“The police are mystified,” the newspaper said. “The victim, a stranger in the city, is equally mystified. He claims to know of no person or persons who might be liable to seek his life. Nor does he remember having heard the click. He was aware only of a violent impact as the strange missile entered. Sergeant of Detectives O’Connell believes the weapon to have been an air-rifle, but this is denied by Chief of Detectives Randall, who claims to know air-rifles, and who denies that such a weapon could be utilized unseen in a dense crowd.”

“It was the Chief without doubt,” Murgweather was assuring Hall a few minutes later. “He is still in town. Will you please inform Denver, San Francisco, and New Orleans of the event? The weapon is the Chief’s own invention. Several times he has loaned it to Harrison, who always returned it after using. The compressed-air chamber is strapped on the body under the arm or wherever is most convenient. The discharging mechanism is no larger than a toy pistol, and can be readily concealed in the hand. We must be very careful from now on.”

“I am in no danger,” Hall answered. “I am only Temporary Secretary, and am not a member.”

“I am glad that Haas will recover,” Murgweather said. “He is a very estimable man and a scholar. I have the keenest appreciation of his intellect, though he is prone to be too serious at times, and, I fear me, finds a certain pleasure in taking human life.”

“Don’t you?” Hall asked quickly.

“No, and no other one of us, with the exception of Haas. He has the temperament for it. Believe me, Mr. Hall, though I have faithfully performed my tasks for the Bureau, and despite my ethical convictions as to the righteousness of the acts, I never put through an execution without qualms of the flesh. I know it is foolish, but I cannot overcome it. Why, I was positively nauseated by my first affair. I have written a monograph upon the subject, not for publication, of course, but it is a very interesting field of study. If you care to, I shall be glad for you to come out to the house some evening and glance over what I have written.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

“It is a curious problem,” Murgweather continued. “The sacredness of human life is a social concept. The primitive natural man never had any qualms about killing his fellow man. Theoretically, I should have none. Yet I do have. The question is: how do they arise? Has the long evolution to civilization impressed this concept into the cerebral cells of the race? Or is it due to my training in childhood and adolescence, before I became an emancipated thinker? Or may it not be due to both causes? It is very curious.”

“I am sure it is,” Hall answered dryly. “But what are you going to do about the Chief?”

“Kill him. It is all we can do, and we certainly must assert our right to live. The situation is a new one to us, however. Hitherto, the men we destroyed were unaware of their danger. Also, they never pursued us. But the Chief does know our intention, and, furthermore, he is destroying us. We have never been hunted before. He has certainly been more fortunate than we. But I must be going. I agreed to meet Hanover at quarter past.”

“But aren’t you afraid?” Hall asked.

“Of what?”

“Of the Chief killing you?”

“No; it won’t matter much. You see, I am well insured, and in my own experience I have exploded one generally accepted notion, namely, that the man who has taken many lives is, by those very acts, made more afraid himself to die. This is not true. I have demonstrated it. The more I have administered death to others--eighteen times, by my count--the easier death has seemed to me. Those very qualms I spoke of are the qualms of life. They belong to life, not to death. I have written a few detached thoughts on the subject. If you care to glance at them....”

“Yes, indeed,” Hall assured him.

“This evening, then. Say at eleven. If I am detained by this affair, ask to be shown into my study. I’ll lay the manuscript, and that of the monograph, too, on the reading table for you. I’d prefer to read them aloud and discuss them with you, but if I can’t be there, jot down any notes of criticism that may come to you.”

_Chapter X_

“I know there is much you are concealing from me, and I cannot understand why. Surely, you are not unwilling to aid me in saving Uncle Sergius?”

Grunya’s last sentence was uttered pleadingly, and her eyes were warm with the golden glow that for this once failed to reach Hall’s heart.

“Uncle Sergius doesn’t seem to need much saving,” he muttered grimly.

“Now just what do you mean?” she cried, quickly suspicious.

“Nothing, nothing, I assure you, except merely that he has escaped so far.”

“But how do you know he has escaped?” she insisted. “May he not be dead? He has not been heard of since he left Chicago. How do you know but what those brutes have killed him?”

“He has been seen here in St. Louis--”

“There!” she interrupted excitedly. “I knew you were keeping things from me! Now, honestly, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Hall confessed. “But by your uncle’s own instructions. Believe me, you cannot be of the least assistance to him. You can’t even find him. It would be wise for you to return to New York.”

For an hour longer she catechized him and he wasted advice on her, and they parted in mutual irritation.

Promptly at eleven, Hall rang the bell at Murgweather’s bungalow. A little sleepy-eyed maidservant of fourteen or fifteen, apparently aroused from bed, admitted and led him to Murgweather’s study.

“He’s in there,” she said, pushing open the door and leaving him.

At the further side of the room, seated at the table, partly in the light of a reading lamp, but more in shadow, was Murgweather. His crossed arms rested on the table, and on them rested his bowed head. Evidently asleep, Hall concluded, as he crossed over. He spoke to him, then touched him on the shoulder, but there was no response. He felt the genial assassin’s hand and found it cold. A stain upon the floor, and a perforation of the reading jacket beneath the shoulder, told the story. Murgweather’s heart had been in the right place. An open window, directly behind, showed how the deed had been accomplished.

Hall drew the heap of manuscript from beneath the dead man’s arms. He had been killed as he pored over what he had written. “Some Casual Thoughts on Death,” Hall read the title, then searched on till he found the monograph, “A Tentative Explanation of Certain Curious Psychological Traits.”

It would never do for Murgweather’s family if such damning evidence were found with the corpse, was Hall’s decision. He burned them in the fireplace, turned down the lamp, and crept softly out of the house.

Early the following morning, the news was broken to him in his room by Starkington, but it was not until afternoon that the papers published the account. Hall was frightened. The little maidservant had been interviewed, and that she had used her sleepy eyes to some purpose was shown by the excellence of the description she gave of the visitor she had admitted at eleven o’clock the previous night. The detail she gave was almost photographic. Hall got up abruptly and looked at himself in the glass. There was no mistaking it. The reflection he saw was precisely that of the man for whom the police were searching. Even to the scarf-pin, he was that man.

He made a hurried rummage of his luggage and arrayed himself as dissimilarly as possible. Then, dodging into a taxi from the side entrance of the hotel, he made the round of the shops, from headgear to footgear purchasing a new outfit.

Back at the hotel, he found he had just time to catch a westbound train. Fortunately, he was able to get Grunya to the telephone, so as to tell her of his departure. Also, he took the liberty of guessing that Dragomiloff’s next appearance would be in Denver, and he advised her to follow on.

Once on the train and out of the city, he breathed more easily, and was able more calmly to consider the situation. He, too, he decided, was on the adventure path, and a madly tangled path it was. Starting out with the intention of running down the Assassination Bureau and destroying it, he had fallen in love with the daughter of its organizer, become Temporary Secretary of the Bureau, and was now being sought by the police for the murder of one of the members who had been killed by the Chief of the Bureau. “No more practical sociology for me,” he said to himself. “When I get out of this I shall confine myself to theory. Closet sociology from now on.”

At the depot in Denver, he was greeted sadly by Harkins, the head of the local branch. Not until they were in a machine and whirling uptown did the cause of Harkins’s sadness come out.

“Why didn’t you warn us?” he said reproachfully. “You let him give you the slip, and we were so certain that his account would be settled in St. Louis that we were not prepared.”

“He has arrived, then?”

“Arrived? Gracious! The first we knew, two of us were done for--Bostwick, who was like a brother to me, and Calkins, of San Francisco. And now Harding, the other San Francisco man, has dropped from sight. It is terrible.” He paused and shuddered. “I parted from Bostwick not more than fifteen minutes before it happened. He was so bright and cheerful. And now his little love-saturated home! His dear wife is inconsolable.”

Tears ran down Harkins’s cheeks, so blinding him that he slowed the pace of the machine. Hall was curious. Here was a new type of madman, a sentimental assassin.

“But why should it be terrible?” he queried. “You have dealt death to others. It is the same phenomenon in all cases.”

“But this is different. He was my friend, my comrade.”

“Possibly others that you have killed had friends and comrades.”

“But if you could have seen him in his little home,” Harkins maundered on. “He was a model husband and father. He was a good man, an excellently good man, a saint, so considerate that he would not harm a fly.”

“But what happened to him was only what he had made happen to others,” Hall objected.

“No, no; it is different!” the other cried passionately. “If you had only known him. To know him was to love him. Everybody loved him.”

“Undoubtedly his victims as well?”

“Aye, had they had the opportunity they could not have helped loving him,” Harkins proclaimed vehemently. “If you only knew the good he has done and was continually doing. His four-footed friends loved him. The very flowers loved him. He was president of the Humane Society. He was the strongest worker among the anti-vivisectionists. He was in himself a whole society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.”

“Bostwick ... Charles N. Bostwick,” Hall murmured. “Yes, I remember. I have noticed some of his magazine articles.”

“Who does not know him?” Harkins broke in ecstatically, and broke off long enough to blow his nose. “He was a great power for good, a great power for good. I would gladly change places with him right now, to have him back in the world.”

Nevertheless, outside of his love for Bostwick, Hall found Harkins to be a keen, intelligent man. He stopped the machine at a telegraph office.

“I told them to hold any messages for me this morning,” he explained as he got out.

In a minute he was back, and together, with the aid of the cipher, they translated the telegram he had received. It was from Harding, and had been sent from Ogden.

“Westbound,” it ran. “Chief on board. Am waiting opportunity. Shall succeed.”

“He won’t,” Hall volunteered. “The Chief will get Harding.”

“Harding is a strong and alert man,” Harkins affirmed.

“I tell you, you fellows don’t realize what you’re up against.”

“We realize that the life of the organization is at stake, and that we must deal with a recreant Chief.”

“If you thoroughly realized the situation you’d head for tall timber and climb a tree and let the organization go smash.”

“But that would be wrong,” Harkins protested gravely.

Hall threw up his hands in despair.

“To make it doubly sure,” the other continued, “I shall immediately tell the comrades at St. Louis to come on. If Harding fails--”

“Which he will.”

“We’ll proceed to San Francisco. In the meantime--”

“In the meantime, you’ll please run me back to the depot,” Hall interrupted, glancing at his watch. “There’s a westbound train due. I’ll meet you in San Francisco, at the St. Francis Hotel, if you don’t meet the Chief first. If you do meet him first ... well, it’s goodbye now and for good.”

Before the train started, Hall had time to write a note to Grunya, which Harkins was to deliver to her on the train. The note informed her of her uncle’s continued westward flight and advised her, when she got to San Francisco, to register at the Fairmount Hotel.

_Chapter XI_

At Reno, Nevada, a dispatch was delivered to Hall. It was from the sentimental Denver assassin.

“Man ground to pieces at Winnemucca. Must be Chief. Return at once.
Members all arriving Denver. We must reorganize.”

But Hall grinned and remained on his westbound train. The reply he wired was:

“Better identify. Did you deliver letter to lady?”

Three days later, at the St. Francis Hotel, Hall heard again from the manager of the Denver Bureau. This wire was from Winnemucca, Nevada.

“My mistake. It was Harding. Chief surely heading for San
Francisco. Inform local branch. Am following. Delivered letter.
Lady remained on train.”

But no trace of Grunya could Hall find in San Francisco. Nor could Breen and Alsworthy, the two local members, help him. Hall even went over to Oakland and ferreted out the sleeping car she had arrived in and the Negro porter of the car. She had come to San Francisco and promptly disappeared.

The assassins began to string in--Hanover of Boston, Haas, the hungry one with the misplaced heart, Starkington of Chicago, Lucoville of New Orleans, John Gray of New Orleans, and Harkins of Denver. With the two San Francisco members there was a total of eight. They were all that survived in the United States. As was well known to them, Hall did not count. While Temporary Secretary of the organization, disbursing its funds and transmitting its telegrams, he was not one of them and his life was not threatened by the mad leader.

What convinced Hall that they were all madmen was the uniform kindness with which they treated him and the confidence they reposed in him. They knew him to be the original cause of their troubles; they knew he was bent upon the destruction of the Assassination Bureau and that he had furnished the fifty thousand dollars for the death of their Chief; and yet they gave Hall credit for what he considered the rightness of his conduct and for the particular streak of ethical madness that simmered somewhere in his make-up and compelled him to play fairly with them. He did not betray them. He handled their funds honestly; and he performed satisfactorily all the duties of Temporary Secretary.

With the exception of Haas, who, despite his achievements in Greek and Hebrew, was too kin to the tiger in lust to kill, Hall could not help but like these learned lunatics who had made a fetish of ethics and who took the lives of fellow humans with the same coolness and directness of purpose with which they solved problems in mathematics, made translations of hieroglyphics, or carried through chemical analyses in the test-tubes of their laboratories. John Gray he liked most of all. A quiet Englishman, in appearance and carriage a country squire, John Gray entertained radical ideas concerning the function of the drama. During the weeks of waiting, when there was no sign of Dragomiloff or Grunya, Gray and Hall frequented the theatres together, and to Hall their friendship proved a liberal education. During this period, Lucoville became immersed in basketry, devoting himself in particular to the recurrent triple-fish design so common in the baskets of the Ukiah Indians. Harkins painted water colors, after the Japanese school, of leaves, mosses, grasses, and ferns. Breen, a bacteriologist, continued his search of years for the parasite of the corn-worm. Alsworthy’s hobby was wireless telephony, and he and Breen divided an attic laboratory between them. And Hanover, an immediate patron of the city’s libraries, surrounded himself with scientific books and worked at the fourteenth chapter of a ponderous tome which he had entitled _Physical Compulsions of the Aesthetics of Color_. He put Hall to sleep one warm afternoon by reading to him the first and thirteenth chapters.

The two months of inaction would not have occurred, and the assassins would have gone back to their home cities, had it not been for the fact that they were baited to remain by a weekly message from Dragomiloff. Regularly, each Saturday night, Alsworthy was called up by telephone, and over the wire heard the unmistakable toneless and colorless voice of the Chief. He always reiterated the one suggestion that the surviving members of the Assassination Bureau disband the organization. Hall, present at one of their councils, seconded the proposition. The hearing they accorded him was out of courtesy only, for he was not one of them; and he stood alone in the opinion he expressed.

As they saw it, there was no possible way by which they could break their oaths. The rules of the Bureau had never been broken. Even Dragomiloff had not broken them. In strict accord with the rules he had accepted Hall’s fee of fifty thousand dollars, judged himself and his acts as socially hurtful, passed sentence on himself, and selected Haas to execute the sentence. Who were they, they demanded, that they should behave less rightly than their Chief? To disband an organization which they believed socially justifiable would be a monstrous wrong. As Lucoville said, “It would stultify all morality and place us on the level of the beasts. Are we beasts?”

And “No! No! No!” had been the passionate cries of the members.

“Madmen yourselves,” Hall called them. “As mad as your Chief is mad.”

“All moralists have been considered mad,” Breen retorted. “Or, to be precise, have been considered mad by the common ruck of their times. No moralist, unworthy of contempt, can act contrary to his belief. All crucifixions and martyrdoms have been gladly accepted by the true moralists. It was the only way to give power to their teaching. Faith! That’s it! And, as the slang of the day goes, they delivered the goods. They had faith in the right they envisioned. What is the life of man compared with the living truth of the thought of man? A vain thing is precept without example. Are we preceptors who dare not be exemplars?”

“No! No! No!” had been the chorus of approbation.

“We dare not, as true thinkers and right-livers, by thought, much less by deed, negate the high principles we expound,” said Harkins.

“Nor can we otherwise climb upwards towards the light,” Hanover added.

“We are not madmen,” Alsworthy cried. “We are men who see clearly. We are high priests at the altar of right conduct. As well call our good friend, Winter Hall, a madman. If truth be mad, and we are touched by it, is not Winter Hall likewise touched? He has called us ethical lunatics. What else, then, has his conduct been but ethical lunacy? Why has he not denounced us to the police? Why does he, holding our views abhorrent, continue to act as our Secretary? He is not even bound by solemn contracts as we are. He merely bowed his head and consented to do the several things requested of him by our recreant Chief. He belongs to both sides in the present controversy; the Chief trusts him; we trust him; and he betrays neither one side nor the other. We know and like him. I, for one, find but two things distasteful in him: first, his sociology, and, second, his desire to destroy our organization. But when it comes to ethics he is as like us as a pea in a pod is to its fellows.”

“I, too, am touched,” Hall murmured sadly. “I admit it. I confess it. You are such likable lunatics, and I am so weak, or strong, or foolish, or wise--I don’t know what--that I cannot break my given word. All the same, I wish I could bring you fellows to my way of thinking, as I brought the Chief to my way of thinking.”

“Oh, but did you?” Lucoville cried. “Why then did the Chief not retire from the organization?”

“Because he had accepted the fee I paid for his life,” Hall answered.

“And for the same reasons precisely are we plighted to take his life,” Lucoville drove the point home. “Are we less moral than our Chief? By our compacts, when the Chief accepted the fee we were bound to carry into execution his agreement with you. It mattered not what that agreement might be. It chanced to be the Chief’s own death.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What would you? The Chief must die, else we are not exemplars of what we believe to be right.”

“There you go, always harking back to morality,” Hall complained.

“And why not?” Lucoville concluded grandly. “The world is founded on morality. Without morality the world would perish. There is a righteousness in the elements themselves. Destroy morality and you would destroy gravitation. The very rocks would fly apart. The whole sidereal system would fume into the unthinkableness of chaos.”

_Chapter XII_

One evening, at the Poodle Dog Café, Hall waited vainly for John Gray to join him at dinner. The theatre, as usual, had been planned for afterwards. But John Gray did not come, and by half past eight Hall returned to the St. Francis Hotel, under his arm a bundle of current magazines, intent on early to bed. There was something familiar about the walk of the woman who preceded him towards the elevator, and, with a quick intake of breath, he hurried after.

“Grunya,” he said softly, as the elevator started.

In one instant she gave him a startled glance from trouble-burdened eyes, and the next instant she had caught his hand between both of hers and was clinging to it as if for strength.

“Oh, Winter,” she breathed. “Is it you? That is why I came to the St. Francis. I thought I might find you. I need you so. Uncle Sergius is mad, quite mad. He ordered me to pack up for a long journey. We sail tomorrow. He compelled me to leave the house and to come to a downtown hotel, promising to join me later, or to join me on the steamer tomorrow morning. I engaged rooms for him. But something is going to happen. He has some terrible plan in mind, I know. He--”

“What floor, sir?” the elevator operator interrupted.

“Go down again,” Hall ordered, for there was no one else in the car.

“Wait,” he cautioned. “We will go to the Palm Room and talk.”

“No, no,” she cried. “Let us get out on the street. I want to walk. I want fresh air. I want to be able to think. Do you think I am mad, Winter? Look at me. Do I look it?”

“Hush,” he commanded, pressing her arm. “Wait. We will talk it over. Wait.”

It was patent that she was in a state of high excitement, and her effort to control herself on the down-trip of the elevator was successful but pitiful.

“Why didn’t you communicate with me?” he asked, when they had gained the sidewalk and were walking to the corner of Powell, where he intended directing their course across Union Square. “What became of you when you reached San Francisco? You received my message at Denver. Why didn’t you come to the St. Francis?”

“I haven’t time to tell you,” she hurried on. “My head is bursting. I don’t know what to believe. It seems all a dream. Such things are not possible. Uncle’s mind is deranged. Sometimes I am absolutely sure there is no such things as the Assassination Bureau. It is an imagining of Uncle Sergius. You, too, have imagined it. This is the twentieth century. Such an awful thing cannot be. I ... I sometimes wonder if I have had typhoid fever, or if I am not even now in the delirium of fever, with nurses and doctors around me, raving all this nightmare myself. Tell me, tell me, are you, too, a sprite of fantasy--a vision of a disease-stricken brain?”

“No,” he said gravely and slowly. “You are awake and well. You are yourself. You are now crossing Powell Street with me. The pavement is slippery. Do you not feel it underfoot? See those tire chains on that motorcar. Your arm is in mine. This is a real fog drifting across from the Pacific. Those are real people on yonder benches. You see this beggar, asking me for money. He is real. See, I give him a real half-dollar. He will most likely spend it on real whiskey. I smelled his breath. Did you? It was real, I assure you, very real. And we are real. Please grasp that. Now, what is your trouble? Tell me all.”

“Is there truly an organization of assassins?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“How do you know? Is it not mere conjecture? May you not be inoculated with uncle’s madness?”

Hall shook his head sadly. “I wish I were. Unfortunately, I know otherwise.”

“How do you know?” she cried, pressing the fingers of her free hand wildly to her temple.

“Because I am Temporary Secretary of the Assassination Bureau.”

She recoiled from him, half withdrawing her arm from his and being restrained only by a reassuring pressure on his part.

“You are one of the band of murderers that is trying to kill Uncle Sergius!”

“No; I am not one of the band. I merely have charge of its funds. Has you--er--your Uncle Sergius told you anything about the--er--the band?”

“Oh, endless ravings. He is so deranged that he believes that he organized it.”

“He did,” Hall said firmly. “He is crazy, there is no doubt of that; but nevertheless he made the Assassination Bureau and directed it.”

Again she recoiled and strove to withdraw her arm.

“And will you next admit that it is you who paid the Bureau fifty thousand dollars in advance for his death?” she demanded.

“It is true. I admit it.”

“How could you?” she moaned.

“Listen, Grunya, dear,” he begged. “You have not heard all. You do not understand. At the time I paid the fee I did not know he was your father--”

He broke off abruptly, appalled at the slip he had made.

“Yes,” she said, with growing calmness, “he told me he was my father, too. I took it for so much raving. Go on.”

“Well, then, I did not know he was your father; nor did I know he was insane. Afterwards, when I learned, I pleaded with him. But he is mad. So are they all, all mad. And he is up to some new madness right now. You dread that something is going to happen. Tell me what are your suspicions. We may be able to prevent it.”

“Listen!” She pressed close to him and spoke quickly in a low, controlled voice. “There is much explanation needed from both of us and to both of us. But first to the danger. When I arrived in San Francisco, why I do not know save that I had a presentiment, I went first to the morgue, then I made the round of the hospitals. And I found him, in the German Hospital, with two severe knife wounds. He told me he had received them from one of the assassins...”

“A man named Harding,” Hall interrupted and guessed. “It happened up on the Nevada desert, near Winnemucca, on a railroad train.”

“Yes, yes; that is the name. That is what he said.”

“You see how everything dovetails,” Hall urged. “There may be a great deal of madness in it, but the madness even is real, and you and I, at any rate, are sane.”