Chapter IV: The Meeting of the Fraternity

The fog held, and Nick's train ran very late, but the time did not hang heavy on his hands; in fact he could almost have wished it longer. The first thing he did was to go through Davies's dispatch-case, in which he found the Western representative's official report to the Chief. After he had read it, Nick sat for a minute or two, lost in thought. Fate had dealt him wonderful cards, but now everything depended on his skill in playing his hand. He sat in a corner of the carriage, staring with unseeing eyes at the window, trying to memorise every gesture and mannerism of the man whose part he meant to play. The voice, which would have been the worst stumbling-block to most men, presented no difficulties to Nick. He was a born mimic, and had cultivated the art all his life. He had heard Davies speak many times, and knew that he could imitate that swift, lilting Welsh voice, with all its odd turns of speech, so that no one would suspect him. Handwriting was the greatest difficulty, so Nick, with the signed report as a copy, practised Davies's signature on the backs of old envelopes, with all the absorbed diligence of an accomplished forger.

Nick was happy--happier than he had been through all these months of hunting. At last he was coming to grips with the enemy and, into the bargain, playing a game after his own heart. It was a dangerous game and a lonely one, and on his success hung the safety of the nation. Nick lit a cigarette, and surveyed his last effort at forgery with critical approval.

'Hand rather shaky still,' he murmured. 'Must make allowances. Good enough.'

Then as the increasing clatter and brighter lights told him that the train was drawing in to Paddington, he destroyed the envelopes and began to apply his mind to the question of disguise. Luckily, Davies was a tall man, near enough to Nick's own height, but there the resemblance ceased. Davies was dark and sallow, and had a drooping black moustache. Nick was fair, clean-shaven, and tanned a healthy brown. Davies had hazel eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. Nick's eyes were grey, and his jaw was decidedly square.

The station clocks stood at 8.40 as the train pulled in to the platform. Nick realised that there was no time to be lost, and hailing a taxi, made for his flat as quickly as possible. When he emerged, twenty minutes later, his head and face were swathed in bandages, and his eyes were masked by big horn-rimmed spectacles, such as Davies usually affected.

The late editions were already announcing the Great Western disaster. Nick could hear the newsboys' shrill voices as he set off in a taxi for Link Street. He caught sight of one flaring headline: 'Cardiff Express Collision in Fog.' This would help, too. The Fraternity would be prepared for his story and his belated arrival. Fate was indeed doing him handsomely. As an after-thought, he had tied up his right arm in a sling. It might be as well to have an alibi when it came to forging Davies's name, and also it would explain his slowness in writing. Nick had had some experience of forgery, but he knew he could not do it with a flourish.

The taxi drew up. Nick got out, paid the driver, and surveyed the place with interest. Number 20 was one of a big block of offices in a long, grey street, empty, save for a few men lounging round a cab-rank a hundred yards away. There was no porter at the door, and he entered the high, stone-flagged hall. On the wall was a brass plate, giving the names of the various offices. On the second floor there was only one, and he stared at the neat black lettering with a puzzled frown.

'The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.'

For one moment he wondered whether Davies had given him the wrong address. Then he smiled.

'The Chief must have a sense of humour,' he thought, 'which means he can't be a fanatic. S.P.G.! How perfect! And no deception, of course; but _what_ a gospel! Well, well, let's have at it.'

At the far end of the hall was an automatic lift. Nick went up to the second floor. As he emerged he found himself facing a door with the title of the society painted on it. He rang, and the door was opened by a grave-faced, square-shouldered man who looked like a valet.

'I'm very sorry, sir,' said the man, 'but Mr. Robertson cannot see anyone to-night. He is conducting a special prayer meeting.'

'I know it,' said Nick, through the fold of bandage across his jaw. 'Hope I haven't kept the Fraternity waiting?'

'Lord, it's Mr. Davies!' said the man, staring. 'But there, it's no wonder I didn't know you till you spoke. Are you hurt bad? They've all been very anxious about you.'

'Nothing serious. Indeed, all that's wrong is a few cuts about the face and a bit of a shake-up.'

'That's a mercy,' said the doorkeeper. 'They'll be no end relieved to see you.' Then he added, in a lower tone, 'The Chief's here, you know.'

'I knew he was to be here. Will you take me to him?'

For a moment the doorkeeper stared, a faint suspicion in his face.

'You must have taken a conk on the head,' he said. 'Since when have the First Four needed announcing?'

Nick took a step forward, reeling a little, and leant against the wall as if exhausted. The doorkeeper caught him by the shoulder.

'Steady, Mr. Davies. I say, d'you feel bad? Here, sit down a minute. I'll get you some brandy.'

'No, no, it's nothing. I still have moments of faintness. Give me an arm; I mustn't keep the Chief waiting.'

'Half a minute. You sit down in that chair, and I'll bring the register. To tell the truth, I'd put it away.'

He crossed the room to a desk and unlocked a drawer. Nick watched him, unseeing. So 'Mr. Robertson' was the name. Was Mr. Robertson the Chief? The doorkeeper returned with a large, leather-bound book and a fountain pen.

'The muster roll was complete half an hour ago, all bar you,' he explained. 'I'd given up all hope of your coming. Here you are. Take your time; I'll hold the book.'

Nick tried not to stare at the page before him. Davies must have seen it many times, but to him it was a revelation. It was a register of all the county leaders, each man's signature against the name of his county, and above, the names of the district representatives, North, South, East, and West. He realised that this meeting would be over sixty strong, and breathed a sigh of relief. The bigger the crowd, the better chance he had of remaining unsuspected. Then the porter dropped a bombshell.

'Lucky you're left-handed,' he remarked, his eyes on the arm-sling.

Nick's brain raced. Was it a trap? He'd made one slip already. Did the porter suspect him? _Was_ Davies left-handed? For one wild second he racked his brain for a memory of the man. A thousand pictures of Davies addressing a crowd ... no use at all, for Davies used both hands in those dramatic gestures of his ... and then, thank God! a sudden memory of the tall Welshman drinking a glass of water.

'I'm not,' he said.

There was a moment's silence, in which Nick felt he could almost hear his own heart beating. Then the doorkeeper nodded.

'No more you are,' he said. 'I must have been thinking of Mr. Crawford. Well, you'd better sign, sir.'

Nick complied, realising with an inward grin at his own expense that there was no need to feign a shakiness at this moment. Laboriously he wrote 'H. L. Davies' in the space left above the Western Counties names, and gave back the pen.

'Right,' said the doorkeeper, putting the volume back in the desk drawer. 'And now let me give you an arm. Sure you won't have a drink first?'

Nick shook his head impatiently, and, leaning on the man's shoulder, limped down the passage. At the end was a plain wooden door, and here the porter left him with a cheery 'See you later, Mr. Davies.'

Nick waited for a moment, making a rapid inventory, as it were, of all his Davies knowledge, and then opened the door. As he did so, a buzz of conversation reached his ears.

'What are we going to do about it?'

'He ought to be here by now, if he's coming.'

'I wish to Heaven he'd come on our train.'

'Well, unless he's killed'--this was a bluff, North Country voice--'he'll get here yet. I'll back Davies every time.'

'Thank you,' said Nick, entering and shutting the door behind him.

There was a confused cry of surprise and welcome. Men crowded round him, welcoming him, asking questions, expressing concern for his bandaged head and arm. Nick, replying in Davies's curt, crisp voice, found his eyes search vainly for any man who might be the Chief. It was a large room, and seemed filled with men; men of all classes and types; but all of them seemed to be waiting, as he was. Then one of his Welsh group spoke to him, a little man named Williams, whom Nick knew well by sight.

'I suppose the Chief _is_ here?' he said. 'He's supposed to be in the next room with R.O., and the other three, but so far we haven't seen him.'

'He'll come when he sees fit,' said Nick, with a certainty he was far from feeling.

'That's all very well,' grumbled the other. 'I tell you, Davies, I'm getting tired of following a mythical leader. You told us he'd hold this meeting himself, but he didn't. R.O. took it, as usual.'

'Did he say anything of interest?' asked Nick.

'Just what you said he would. We were given our final instructions, and if the Chief is satisfied with the reports, R.O. says he may even fix the date to-night.'

Nick nodded carelessly, but his pulses were beginning to pound. The date meant the day of the rising itself, he felt certain. He was wondering whether he ought to go and attack the inner room where the Chief was conferring with R.O.--whoever he might be--and the other Three. This last Nick realised to be the Northern, Southern, and Eastern representatives, and his place should obviously be with them. The man beside him cut short his thoughts by whispering: 'Here's R.O. at last!' and Nick turned to see a young man approaching him with outstretched hand.

'Well done, Davies!' he was saying. 'I've only just been told of your arrival. Can't tell you how worried we've been about you. We knew you were on that train, you see. Why didn't you come right in? Hope you've got your report? Good. Come along, the Chief's very anxious to see you.'

With that he turned and led the way across the room. Nick followed, thankful that no reply was expected of him. He had just remembered where and how he had met this young man before. Barely a month ago they had been fellow-guests at a party given by Mrs. Lancaster--Adele Lancaster--that smart and lovely widow, whose literary parties were so famous among the younger intellectuals. Nick attended these parties from a purely self-educational point of view. He had a passion for acquiring dialects, and though this misty, super-artistic language was probably as old as the hills, he had not run across it till now, and had set himself to learn it with much energy and considerable success. This young man had talked it with ease, and Nick remembered watching him at that party and wondering if he were really such a fool as he looked and sounded. And so _he_ had a dual personality, too. This might be useful. Nick grinned under his mask of bandages as he followed his guide into the inner room.

'Here is Davies, sir,' said R.O., and stood back to allow Nick to enter.

There were four men in the room, but Nick hardly realised it, for his whole mind was occupied with one: a tall, erect man with a pointed black beard, who rose slowly to his feet and held out his hand.

'Well played, Davies,' he said quietly.

As Nick returned the grip he felt a sudden glow: the quick response of a man who has done good work, and whose effort has been understood and appreciated by his superior; the realisation that makes the hardest job seem supremely worth while. It was the glow he had felt as a subaltern when he had been praised by Jack Strickland, that best of company commanders. _Strickland!_ With a jerk that seemed almost physical he pulled himself together and realised the yawning chasm that had suddenly opened at his feet. He had been on the point of a smiling denial ... 'Oh, rot, sir. Anyone would have done as much' ... and in his own voice. Davies would never have said that ... and he was Davies. Good God! he had forgotten, under the spell of this man's charm, that he was Davies. He hunched one shoulder, in Davies's awkward manner, and spoke huskily:

'Nothing is too great for the Cause, Chief.'

There was a moment's pause--a moment that seemed an age--while the bearded man stood still, regarding him, and Nick fought desperately for his self-control. This man was his own sort; a man who could speak his own language and play the game he himself played, with the same delight. A born leader, quick to understand, radiating the strength of his personality; a man one would be proud to follow. Such a man would never let his followers down ... and then Nick remembered that this man was plotting the overthrow of England and, to Nick's mind at least, was proposing to let down every soul that enlisted under his revolutionary banner. Abruptly his vision cleared. What a man to follow, indeed; but still more, what an enemy to fight!

'True, Davies,' the Chief was saying, 'the Cause is worthy of any sacrifice. Your spirit is an example to us all. And now, your report.'

Nick, fumbling with the catch of Davies's dispatch-case, was conscious of a pang of disappointment. A man didn't speak of 'The Cause' in that tone. It was melodrama. And then he realised that Davies did, and it was to Davies the Chief was speaking. He drew a long breath, feeling like a man who has fought his way through flames, to emerge unhurt. As he had suspected, this was the secret of the Chief's power; that to every man he could seem his own sort, quick to understand, utterly sincere in sympathy. 'Genius!' he said to himself, and realised that the worst danger was over, and for him, at least, that strange power was dead. He took Davies's closely written report from the case and held it out, swaying a little on his feet as he did so. The Chief thrust forward a chair.

'Take it easy, Davies,' he advised. 'You've been through a great strain.' He took the report as Nick sat down. 'I need not go through this evening's proceedings with you,' he went on. 'You know what we planned for this meeting. All I need tell you is that matters are progressing admirably. Russia has definitely promised the money on no security other than the signatures of our county and district leaders. This is merely as proof that our plans have a solid backing. If you want any details, R.O. can give them to you while I am reading your report. I may say that if it is as good as those of the other Three'--he smiled at the men behind him--'I shall be in a position to announce the date to-night.'

Nick sat still, not daring to ask questions for fear of betraying himself. Who _was_ this man, this Mr. Robertson? After all these months of hunting he had come face to face with him, and was no nearer the solution. He rested his head in his hands, feigning faintness, and the other men made no attempt to engage him in talk. Luck had stood by him so far, but time was growing short. He would certainly not get such a chance again, and must make the most of it.

At last the Chief rose to his feet, tapping the report with his finger.

'Davies, I congratulate you. You have done magnificently. R.O., summon the meeting. Gentlemen,' he nodded to the Four, 'if you will take your places I will join you in a moment.'

The young secretary opened the door, and Nick with his three colleagues filed out into the meeting-room. Every head turned to watch them, and the atmosphere was tense with suppressed excitement. The First Four--Nick carefully following the Northern representative--seated themselves at a table facing the room. R.O. stood between them, North and West on his right hand, South and East on his left, and rapped on the table for silence. There was a sudden hush.

'Comrades,' he said, 'take your places. In a few moments the Chief will speak to you.'

A murmur ran round the company, and the men made their way to the rows of chairs that faced the table. Nick watched them with increasing interest and surprise. These men were no fanatics, but intelligent, level-headed Englishmen. There was not a weak or a vicious face among them. They sprang from every social rank in the country, but each man was a first-class type of his kind. Again Nick marvelled at the personality of a man who could control thousands he had never seen; who could project his influence through four men in such a way as to bring this light into the eyes of these sixty-seven county leaders, and through them again to the rank and file. All the mysticism of his Irish blood rose in Nick. This was magic. The Chief had bewitched these men. They were mesmerised by the unseen power of their leader, as he himself had been so nearly mesmerised by his presence. These men, these sturdy, honest, hard-working Englishmen, were no danger in themselves. Remove the Chief, and they would revert to their normal lives. Metaphorically they would rub their eyes and wonder what this wild dream had been. The Chief was literally the heart of this great body, and directly the heart ceased to function the body would die. In a way, it was a comforting thought. Nick had maintained so stoutly that Bolshevism was an utterly alien thing to the English mind, and now--even in the face of this great expectant gathering--he felt certain of it. The Chief must be put out of the way; that was essential; but not one of these men should be incriminated if Nick could help it.

As he came to this decision the Chief entered the room. Nick did not hear the door open, but he saw the faces before him light up with the same recognition that had filled him a few moments before. Each one of those men before him was feeling that sense of kinship and understanding, and as he watched, he realised the psychological genius of the man in remaining unseen until this eleventh hour. These followers of his would leave the meeting keyed up to a pitch of enthusiasm and loyalty that would carry them through death itself.

'It _is_ hypnotism!' thought Nick. And then as the Chief began to speak, and with every word Nick felt his power grow, he began to be afraid. This man had humour and balance, and a mind as clean and cutting sharp as a razor-blade. Such a man could never believe in his ability to change the whole temperament of the nation. For all that swift sympathy, so irresistible on first sight, there was a cold cruelty about the man; an utter indifference to human life and happiness. This man, Nick felt, with sudden insight, would give up his life with complete satisfaction for the sake of a month's gratification of his lust for supreme power. He would probably die gladly, for too long a spell would bore him. In this cause he was proposing to raise revolution in England, to risk the lives of his followers, to bring ruin and suffering to his country. Nick's jaw set grimly as he listened to the Chief's level voice.

He spoke slowly and quietly; there was nothing melodramatic or impassioned in his speech, but every word rang with an inspired sincerity and conviction, and with every word Nick knew he was binding his listeners more closely to his cause. These men had been loyal admirers; they were now worshippers. The Chief had given them that touch of fanaticism that he needed in his adherents. Little bursts of applause began to break out; stifled, half-hysterical words of admiration; and once, a burst of cheering. The Chief raised his hand, and the noise died away with uncanny abruptness.

'My friends,' he said, 'this crusade in which we are enlisting has been attempted before, and has failed most pitiably for a very obvious reason. We are English. We may see the hideous injustice of the present system, and realise the dawn of a new era, but it is a dominant characteristic of the English mind that we would rather be misruled by our own people than live in a Utopia run by aliens. That is the rock on which all previous attempts have split. This time we are safe. We are all English ... British of every county and class in the Island ... and because of this we shall succeed. To each one of you, the men you lead into action will be your own kin. We do not want bloodshed. We will face it if necessary, but our aim is England's salvation, not her downfall. She is our England. She has been great, and she will be great again, so that the world will forget these dark years when her fate hung so precariously in the balance. We shall save her. As one man we shall rise to her aid on that glorious day which stands for ever sacred to the name of Freedom ... July the Fourth!'

There was a moment's silence, and then a storm of cheering. As it broke out, the Chief turned and disappeared into the inner room. The men were on their feet, shouting wildly, some with tears in their eyes. Then the tumult subsided and R.O. stepped forward.

'Comrades,' he said, 'you know the plans, and have your instructions. Remember that secrecy is now even more important than ever. The First Four will meet the Chief on June 15th to receive the funds which Russia is sending us, and any final orders that may be necessary. I have here the statement to which I referred earlier in the proceedings, the list of names which we are sending to Moscow as a guarantee of our strength. Will you all sign it before you leave. Comrades, we have a difficult time of waiting ahead, but remember, it is not for long. On July the Fourth we shall meet again, openly and victoriously, to unite all England, Scotland and Wales, under the banner of the greatest leader God ever made.'

There was a broken mutter of agreement--a sound that seemed to Nick more moving than the wildest cheers--and then the county leaders came forward. Each man signed, bade good-night to the district representatives and R.O., and then took his departure, quietly and without haste.

Nick sat still, head in his hands, elbows propped on the table. Even when his three colleagues rose to add their names to the list he did not stir. The Eastern and Southern representatives went off quickly, but the Northerner hesitated, glancing at the silent man at the table.

'Shall I bring the list over to you, Davies?' he asked.

Nick looked up with a start.

'Who--what?' he muttered. 'Oh, the statement. Yes, I'll sign it.'

He wrote his name slowly, his head sagging over the paper, and pushed it away.

'You're the last, Abbott,' said R.O. 'Not going back to Yorkshire to-night, are you?'

'No fear, staying in London. There you are, R.O., that's finished.'

The young secretary slipped the paper into a long envelope and sealed it heavily. The Yorkshireman still hesitated, his eyes anxiously on the representative for the West.

'Can I give you a lift anywhere, Davies?' he asked.

'No, thanks,' muttered Nick, without looking up.

R.O. caught Abbott's eye, and shook his head. Together they walked to the door.

'He's damned plucky,' said the Northerner, under his breath, 'but he looks like death. He ought to be in hospital.'

R.O. smiled. 'I'd be sorry for anyone who tried to take him there,' he said. 'You don't know Davies as well as I do. He's got the courage of a lion and a brilliant brain, but he's as independent as blazes, and has the very devil of a temper if he's rubbed up the wrong way. Even the Chief admits that he has to be careful how he handles Davies. All the Welsh pride and all their touchiness. He's best left alone.'

'You may be right,' said Abbott, 'but I don't mind saying I've been expecting him to collapse at any minute. Have you got any brandy in the place?'

'No. Oh, yes, we have, though. The Chief always carries a flask.'

'Well, if you take my tip, you'll give him a good dose and get him off in a taxi. Good-night, R.O.'

The young secretary waved a friendly salute, and returned to the meeting-room. On the floor, in front of the table, lay the representative for the West, in a crumpled heap.

'Poor devil!' muttered the boy.

He stooped over the inert body and then, realising that the man was too big to lift without help, went in search of restoratives. In a moment or two he returned, and then stopped on the threshold of the room, his heart in his mouth.

The representative for the West had disappeared, and so had the sealed envelope.