"He"s told you exactly?"

The fellow nodded, without further waste of words.

"Very well, then," Levison answered--"then there is no need of any explanations on my part. At the same time, I will say just this: A certain person has got to be put out of the way. That you already understand. But there need not necessarily be anything more than that.

An injury that would incapacitate the person we know of, would put him on the shelf for a long time, would be quite enough."

The man smiled. The whole ghastly immobility of the mask was suddenly transformed into a hideous and mocking countenance. The tool of the arch criminal betrayed his superiority to scruple, and in that moment the hired a.s.sa.s.sin was contemptuous of the greater scoundrel and the weaker man.

"As you like, gov"nor," he said, in a low, oily voice. "It"s all one to me and my pals--give you my word. There"s lots of ways of putting a cove through it wivout doin" of "im entirely like. But the whole thing"s just as easy."

Levison, whose face had suddenly grown very white, made him an impatient and terrified movement with his hand.

It was one thing to call up one of the foul creeping things of London, it was quite another to hear hideousness voicing horror in a quiet and accustomed room.

"I want to hear nothing at all!" he said, in a high-pitched and unsteady voice. "Don"t tell me! Don"t tell me! I don"t want to know!"

Once more the a.s.sa.s.sin smiled--dreadfully.

"Very well, gov"nor," he whispered. "That"s all O.K. Leave it to me, and it"ll be safe as "ouses. Day after ter-morrer this "ere Joseph is going down into Whitechapel wiv a lot of "is swell pals. Sort of explanatory tour, it is. "E"s a-goin" to show them "ow the pore live. Tike "em over the rookeries and preach the Gospel. We"ll "ave lots of chances, and no one won"t know "oo done it. It"s a question of terms, that"s all. You"re a gen"leman, you are, sir; and Mr. "Arris "ere, an old pal of the boys, is a gentleman, too. Guv"nor, what are you a-goin" to hoffer?"

Levison"s hand trembled as he opened a drawer of the big writing-table.

He withdrew ten sovereigns in gold.

"Take this," he said, "and when the thing is done, I"ll give you twenty more of the same. Harris will give them to you from me. And now, for G.o.d"s sake, get out of my sight!"

The last words burst from him in a high, almost feminine note, and as the two men shuffled away into the fog of the empty foyer, the fat, white hand of the Jew went up to his throat, clutching at it in sick hysteria.

"In the name of G.o.d, get out of my sight!"

Was there ever a more blasphemous parody and mockery than this? He who taketh the name of the Lord G.o.d in vain--

CHAPTER XVIII

REVEALED IN A VISION

Mary Lys stood in the great hall of the East End Hospital, where she had worked for three years. She was saying good-bye.

A little group of men and women stood round her--the men mostly young, clean-shaven, alert, and capable in expression; the women in the uniform of hospital nurses.

Some of the women were crying quietly, and the great visiting surgeon, Sir Abraham Jones himself, alternately tugged at his grey, pointed beard or polished the gla.s.ses of his pince-nez.

"Well, nurse," said the great man, "I must go. I am due in the operating theatre. I am sure that I am only representing the thought of the whole hospital staff when I say how deeply we all regret that you are leaving us. You have--ahem!--endeared yourself to every one, and your work has been splendid. You have been a pattern to your colleagues in every way.

I hope that in the new sphere of life you have chosen you will be happy and prosperous."

Sir Abraham was not an orator in ordinary life, though he had been known to rise to real eloquence when lecturing upon some of the obscurer forms of appendicitis. But the short, jerky sentences came from his heart as he shook the hand of the beautiful girl who, like himself, was a soldier in the n.o.ble army of those who fight disease and death.

They all crowded round Mary. The nurses kissed her, the young doctors wrung her by the hand and tried to express something of their feelings.

Men and women, they all loved and valued her, and every one knew that when she went out through the great doors for the last time they would all suffer a loss which could never be replaced.

It was over at last. No longer in her nurse"s dress, but clothed in the ordinary tailor-made coat and skirt that young ladies wear in London during the mornings, Mary got into the waiting hansom cab. The driver shook the reins, the horse lurched into a trot, there was a vision of waving hands and kindly faces, and then the long, grimy facade of the hospital slid past the window and was lost to view.

Mary Lys was no longer a hospital nurse.

As she drove westward--for she was on her way to her aunt"s house in Berkeley Square, where she was about to make her home for a time--she reviewed her past life, with its many memories, bitter and sweet. It had been a hard and difficult life--a life of unceasing work among gloomy and often terrible surroundings. And moreover, she was not a girl who was insensible to the beauty and softer sides of life. Culture, luxury, and repose were all hers did she but care to speak one word to Lady Kirwan. She was constantly implored to leave the work she had set herself to do.

She had always refused, and now, as she looked back on the past years, she knew that she had been right, that her character was now fixed and immovable, that the long effort and self-control of the past had given her a steadfastness and strength such as are the portion and attributes of few women.

And as the cab moved slowly up the Strand, Mary Lys thanked G.o.d for this. Humbly and thankfully she realized that she was now a better instrument than before, a more finely tempered sword with which to fight the battle of Christ.

For though Mary was to live beneath the roof of Sir Augustus Kirwan, she was not going to live the social life--the life of pleasure and excitement as her cousin Marjorie did. Mary had left the hospital for one definite purpose--that she might join the army of Joseph, and give her whole time to the great work which the evangelist was inaugurating in London.

Joseph and his brethren had now definitely taken up their abode in a large house in Bloomsbury which Sir Thomas Ducaine had given them to be the headquarters of their mission. Workers of all cla.s.ses were flocking there, and Mary knew, without possibility of doubt, that she was called to the work. Every fibre of her spiritual nature told her the truth.

From the first she had been mysteriously connected with the movement.

The supernormal chain of events, the long succession of occurrences that were little less than miraculous, told their own tale. In common with all those people who had anything to do with Joseph, and who were about to join him, Mary was sure that she was being directly guided by the Holy Ghost.

She thought of her dead brother, the strange, prophet-like figure of the mountain and the mist, the real beginner of it all, the man who had taken the empty brain and soul of Joseph himself, and as it were, through his own death, by some strange psychical law unknown to us, poured the Spirit of G.o.d into them as into a vessel.

Mary knew that Lluellyn was aware of her determination, and that he approved it. There were few people who drew more comfort or believed more heartily in the glorious truth of the Communion of Saints than Mary Lys.

She felt that Jesus Christ had conquered death, that our loved ones are with us still, and the time of waiting is short before we shall see them once again.

She did not know how near she was to another special manifestation of G.o.d"s grace and power, for, saint-like and humble as were the pious maids and matrons who listened to the teachings of Our Lord and ministered to Him, she did not realize the growth of her own soul and how near to the great veil her life of purity and sacrifice had brought her.

The cab pa.s.sed out of the Strand into Trafalgar Square, and, the traffic being less congested, began to roll along at a smarter pace than before.

But Mary noticed nothing of her surroundings as the vehicle turned into Pall Mall. From the sweet and tender memory of her dead brother her thoughts had now fallen upon one who was becoming increasingly dear to her, but one for whom she still prayed--and over whom she mourned--unceasingly.

From the very first Mary had been strongly attracted by Sir Thomas Ducaine. Even in the past, when she had definitely refused to listen to his suit, she had known that she was upon the brink of something more than mere affection for him. He was strong, his life was clean, his heart kindly and unspoiled.

But she had restrained herself with the admirable self-control which her life of sacrifice had taught her; she had put the first beginnings and promptings of love away.

He did not believe, he could not believe. G.o.d the Father, G.o.d the Son, G.o.d the Holy Ghost were incredible to him. He would not pretend. He would not seek to win her by a lie, but the Holy Trinity meant nothing at all to him.

But then Joseph had come. The Teacher had influenced the rich and famous young man, so that he had given him everything. Without having realized in its essential essence, the truth of Joseph"s mission and the Divine guidance the Teacher enjoyed, Sir Thomas had nevertheless changed his whole way of life for him.

"Father, teach him of Thyself. Lord Jesus, reveal Thyself to him. Holy Spirit, descend upon him." Thus Mary prayed as she was being driven out of her old life into the new.

It was about one o"clock when the cab stopped at Sir Augustus Kirwan"s house in Berkeley Square.

"My lady and Miss Marjorie told me to tell you, miss," the butler said, as he greeted Mary, "that they are both very sorry indeed that they cannot be here to welcome you. They would have done so if they possibly could. But my lady is lunching at Marlborough House, Miss Mary. Sir Augustus is in the City."

The man handed her on to a footman, who conducted her up the great staircase, at the head of which Mrs. Summers, Lady Kirwan"s maid, and confidential factotum, was waiting.