The Everlasting Arms

CHAPTER XXVI

A Voice from Another World

Dick Faversham walked along Oxford Street thinking deeply. Although he had been by no means convinced by what he had seen and heard, he could not help being impressed. The whole of the proceedings might be accounted for by jugglery and clever trickery, or, on the other hand, influences might have been at work which he could not understand – influences which came from the unseen world. But nothing satisfied him. Everything he had experienced lacked dignity. It was poor; it was sordid. He could not help comparing the outstanding features of the séance with the events which had so affected him. The face of the woman in the smoking-room of the steamer, the sublime figure which had upheld him when he was sinking in the wild, stormy sea, was utterly removed from the so-called spirits who had obeyed the summons of the mediums, and acted through them. How tawdry, too, were the so-called messages compared with the sublime words which had come to him almost like a whisper, and yet so plainly that he could hear it above the roar of the ocean:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

This was sublime – sublime in the great comfort it gave him, sublimer still in what it signified to the life of the world.

"It's true, too!" he exclaimed aloud, as he threaded his way along the crowded thoroughfare. "True!"

He stopped as the meaning of the words came to him:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

And because that was true, everything was possible!

As he thought of it, his materialism melted like snow in a tropical sun, and he realised how superficial and how silly his past scepticism had been.

God was behind all, underneath all, in all, through all. And if that was true, He had a thousand agents working to do His will, an infinite variety of means whereby His purposes were carried out. He, Dick Faversham, could not understand them; but what of that? God was greater than the thoughts of the creatures He had made.

But what of his own immediate actions? He had promised Olga that he would that very day send her a telegram where and when he could meet her, and that this telegram would signify his intention to fall in with her plans. She had given him directions where this telegram was to be sent, and he had to confess that he had looked forward to meeting her again with no ordinary pleasure.

The memory of their strange conversation on the previous night, and the picture of her glorious womanhood came to him with a strange vividness. Well, why should he not send the telegram?

He passed a post office just then, and turned as though he would enter. But he did not pass through the doorway. Something, he could not tell what, seemed to hold him back. He thought little of it, however, and still made his way along Oxford Street, towards High Holborn.

Again the problem of the future faced him, and he wondered what to do. Somehow, he could not tell why, but the thought of meeting the beautiful Russian did not seem to be in accord with the sublime words which were surging through his brain:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge."

He found himself thinking of the wondrous face which had appeared to him as he stood at the door of Wendover Park, and he remembered the words that came to him.

"Pray, pray!" the voice had said. "Watch and pray!"

"God help me!" he cried almost involuntarily. "Great God help me!"

He still threaded his way through the crowd in the great thoroughfare, almost unconscious of what he did. He was scarcely aware that he had uttered a cry to Heaven for help. He passed the end of Chancery Lane and then came to the old timbered houses which stand opposite Gray's Inn Road. But this ancient part of London did not appeal to him. He did not notice that the houses were different from others. He was almost like a man in a dream.

Then suddenly he found himself in Staple Inn. How he had come there he did not know. He had no remembrance of passing through the old doorway, but he was there, and the change from the roar of the great thoroughfare outside and the silence of this little sequestered nook impressed him.

There was not a soul visible in the little square. As all Londoners know, Staple Inn is one of the smallest and quietest in the metropolis. The houses which form it are mostly occupied by professional men, and there is scarcely ever anything like traffic there. But this afternoon there was no one to be seen, and the change from the crowded highway was pleasant.

"What in the world am I doing here?" he asked himself.

But before he had time to answer the question he had propounded he realised a strange sensation. Although he could see nothing, he felt that some presence was near him.

"Listen."

The word was scarcely above a whisper, but he heard it plainly. He looked around him, his senses alert, but nothing was to be seen.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes." He spoke the word almost involuntarily, and his voice seemed strange to his own ears.

"Do you know Drury Lane?"

"Yes," and he looked around wonderingly, trying to locate the voice.

"To-night, at nine o'clock, you must go to Drury Lane. You must walk westward until you come to Blot Street. Turn up at Blot Street, and keep along the right side. You must turn at the third street. You are sure you are following my instructions?"

"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "Who are you? Where are you?"

"You must walk along the third street for about twenty steps, stopping at the door marked 13a. You will knock five times in quick succession. You will wait five seconds, then you will give two more knocks louder than the first. The door will be opened, and you will be asked your business. Your reply will be two words, 'Victory,' 'Dominion.' You will be admitted without further questions. After that use your own judgment."

Suddenly there was a change as if in the whole atmosphere. He had, as it seemed to him, been in a kind of trance, but now he was more than ordinarily awake. And he was alone. Whatever had been near him was gone. The voice had ceased speaking.1

For some time Dick Faversham stood alone in the square without moving hand or foot. He was in a state of astonishment which was beyond the power of words to describe. But he had no doubt that he had heard the voice; he was as certain that some presence which he could not see had been near him as that he was certain he stood there at that moment.

Outside the square in Holborn the tide of traffic rolled on. Conveyances filled with human life rushed eastward and westward; men and women, oblivious to the fact of any world save their own, made their way to their destinations; but inside the square a man felt he had been in touch with mystery, eternity.

He moved into High Holborn like a man in a dream, and stood for a few seconds watching the faces of the passers-by.

"And not one of them seems to realise that the spirit world is all around them," he reflected.

He never thought of disobeying the commands he had received. The voice had come to him with a note of authority; the message was one which must be obeyed.

Slowly he made his way westward again, and presently came to a post office. He entered without hesitation, wrote a telegram, gave it to the clerk, and, having paid for its dispatch, again made his way along the street.

"There, that's done with," he said, with a sigh of relief.

At nine o'clock that night he found himself in Drury Lane following the instructions he had received. He was quite calm, although his heart throbbed with expectancy. He had little or no thought of what he was going to see or hear; enough for him that he was obeying instructions, that he was acting upon the commands which had come to him for his good. For he had no doubt that these commands were somehow for his benefit. Almost unconsciously he associated the presence near him with the one who had hovered over him with arms outstretched when he had been sinking in the stormy sea.

He had no difficulty in finding Blot Street, and quickly found himself at the third turning of that shabby-looking thoroughfare.

"Chainley Alley," he read in the dim light of the darkened street lamp at the corner.

The place was very quiet. He was now away from the traffic of the broad streets, and ordinary business had ceased for the day. There was nothing to mark Chainley Alley from a hundred others which may still be found in the centre of London. It was simply a dark, grimy little opening which, to the ordinary passer-by, presented no interest whatever. A minute later he stood at 13a. All was dark here, and it was with difficulty that he discerned the number. He listened intently, but heard no sound, and then, with a fast-beating heart, he knocked five times in quick succession. Then, waiting five seconds, he knocked again according to instructions.

The door opened as if by magic. It might seem that he was expected. But the passage into which he looked was as black as ink; neither could he hear anything.

Then suddenly the silence was broken. "Who are you? What do you want?" asked someone unseen.

"'Victory,' 'Dominion,'" he whispered.

A dim light shone, and he saw what looked like a woman of the caretaker order. Evidently the house was bigger than he imagined, for the woman led him down a long corridor which suggested that it was a way to another and a larger block of buildings in the rear.

She opened a door and told him to go in. "You will wait there till I call you," she whispered, and then closed the door behind him.

There was a thick rug on the floor, which muffled the sound of his footsteps, but there was no furniture in the room save a deal table and one straight-backed chair. A tiny gas-jet burnt on the wall, which, however, was extinguished a few seconds after the door had closed.

"This is darkness with a vengeance," reflected Dick, but the fact did not trouble him so much because he had brought a small electric lamp with him. He switched on this light and saw that the room had no outlet at all, save the door. There was neither window nor fireplace, and, in fact, was little more than a large cupboard.

Before he had time to realise what this might mean, he heard the sound of footsteps, which seemed to be close by; this was followed by murmuring voices. Then there were more footsteps, and the voices became clearer.

"Is he come?" he heard one man say.

"Not yet. But he'll soon be here. He did not promise to get here till half-past nine."

From that time there was a general hum of conversation, which was intermingled by the clinking of glasses. It might be that he was close to a kind of club-room, and that the members were arriving and ordering refreshments. The conversation continued, now indistinct, and again more clear. Dick caught snatches of it, but it was not connected, and conveyed but little meaning to him.

Suddenly he heard everything plainly, and a sentence struck him. "I hope he'll be careful," he heard someone say. "The whole lot of us would swing if we were found here together." The man spoke in German, and Dick's interest became tense.

"More likely be shot," someone retorted, with a laugh.

"But we're safe enough. This is the first time we've been here, and every care has been taken."

"I know," said someone, who appeared doubtful, "but if the British Secret Service people have been fools in the past, they are sharp enough now. Schleswig thought he was as safe as houses, but he was cleverly nabbed, and now he's cold meat."

"Never mind," said another voice, "our turn is coming. Gott in Himmel, won't we let them know when we are masters of London! Even now the English don't know that their country is a powder magazine. They little think that, in spite of their Alien Acts and the rest of it, the country is still riddled with friends of the Fatherland. Hark, he's coming!"

This was followed by a general shuffling of feet, and Dick instinctively felt that something of importance was about to happen. He wondered at the ease with which he could now hear. Evidently the partition which hid him from the room in which the conspirators had met (for evidently they were conspirators) was thin, or else there must have been some secret channel by which the sounds reached him. He realised, too, that these people had not entered by way of Chainley Alley, but that their room must have an outlet somewhere else. Possibly, probably too, as they had used this meeting-place for the first time that night, these people would be ignorant of the closet where he was hidden.

Dick heard a new voice, and he detected in a moment that it was a voice of authority. I will not attempt to relate all he heard, or attempt to give a detailed description of all that took place. I will only briefly indicate what took place.

The newcomer, who was evidently the person for whom the others had waited, seemed to regard those to whom he spoke as his subordinates. He was apparently the leader of a movement, who reported to his workers what progress had been made, and who gave them instructions as to the future.

He began by telling them that things were not going altogether well for the Fatherland, although he had no doubt of final victory.

But England – Great Britain – was their great enemy, and, unless she were conquered, Germany could never again attempt to be master of the world. But this could never be done altogether by force of arms.

"Russia is conquered!" he declared; "it lies bleeding, helpless, at our feet, but it was not conquered on the battlefield. By means of a thousand secret agencies, by careful and skilful propaganda, by huge bribes, and by playing on the ignorance of the foolish, we set the Bolshevist movement on foot, and it has done our work. Of course it has meant hell in Russia, but what of that? It was necessary for the Fatherland, and we did our work. What, although the ghastliest outrages are committed, and millions killed, if Germany gains her ends!"

What was done in Russia was also being done in Great Britain, he assured them. Of course, our task was harder because the people had, on the whole, been well conditioned and had the justest Government in the world. But he had not been dismayed. Thousands of agencies existed, and even among the English the Germans had many friends. The seeds which had been sown were bringing forth their harvest.

They had fermented strikes, and the English people hadn't known that they had done it. If some of the key industries, such as coal and transport, could be captured, England was doomed. This could be done by Bolshevism; and it was being done.

"But what real progress has been made?" someone dared to ask presently.

"We have workers, agents in all these industries," replied the man, "and I'm glad to tell you that we have won a new recruit, who, although he is a patriotic Englishman, will help our cause mightily. Our trusted friend, Mr. John Brown, has got hold of a man who has a tremendous influence among not only the working-class people in various unions, but among the leaders of those unions, and who will be of vast help in our cause, and of making Great Britain another Russia; that done, victory is ours."

"Who is he?"

"A young man named Faversham. John Brown has had him in hand for months, and has now fairly made him his tool. Even to-night, comrades, we shall get him into our net."

"Tell us more about him," cried someone; but before the speaker could reply, some sort of signal was evidently given, for there was a general stampede, and in an incredibly short time silence reigned.

Almost unconsciously Dick switched on his electric lamp and looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. Although he had not realised it, he had been in the little cupboard of a room more than an hour and a half, while these men had been plotting the ruin and the destruction of the country he loved.

For some time he could not grasp all he had heard, but the meaning of it was presently clear to him. The thought almost overwhelmed him. He had unwittingly been again and again playing into the hands of the enemy.

"I must get out of this," he reflected after a few seconds. "I must get back to the hotel and think it all out."

"You can go now." It was the woman who showed him there who spoke.

A few seconds later he was in the open air, making his way towards Drury Lane.

"Thank God!"

The words passed his lips involuntarily. It seemed the natural expression of his heart.

Almost unconsciously he found his way back to his hotel. He had no remembrance afterwards of the streets he had traversed, or of the turnings he had taken. His mind was too full of the thought that but for his wonderful experience in Staple Inn the facts he had learnt that night would not have been made known to him.

On reaching his hotel he made his way to his sitting-room, and on opening the door he saw a letter lying on the table, which on examination he found to be signed "Olga."

CHAPTER XXVII

Olga makes Love

In order to relate this story in a connected manner it is necessary to return to Count Romanoff's rooms, where, a few hours earlier, both the Count and Mr. John Brown were startled by the sudden entrance of Olga.

"Let me see the telegram," the Count said, holding out his hand. His voice was somewhat hoarse, and his eyes had a peculiar glitter in them.

The girl handed it to him without a word.

"Impossible for me to come. Am leaving London almost immediately.– Faversham."

"What time did you get this?" he asked.

"I scarcely know. Almost directly I got it I came to you. I thought it best. Do you think it is true? Do you believe he will leave London?"

The Count was silent for a few seconds. "It would seem so, wouldn't it?" he answered grimly. "But he must not leave London. At all hazards, he must be kept here."

"But it means that Olga has failed," cried Mr. John Brown. "It means that we have lost him!"

"We have not lost him. I'll see to that," and there was a snarl in Romanoff's voice. "Olga Petrovic, all now depends on you. At your peril you must keep him here; you must win him over. If you fail, so much the worse for you."

Evidently the girl was angered. "Do you threaten me?" she said, with flashing eyes.

"And if I do, what then?"

"Simply that I will not be threatened. If you speak to me in that fashion, I refuse to move another finger."

"I am not in the habit of having my plans destroyed by the whims of a petulant woman," said the Count very quietly. "I tell you that if you fail to keep him in London, and if you fail to make him your slave, ready to obey your every bidding, you pay the penalty."

"What penalty?"

"What penalty?" and the Count laughed. "Need you ask that? You are in my power, Countess Olga Petrovic. I know every detail of your history – every detail, mind you – from the time you were waiting-maid to the Czarina. Yours is a curious history, Countess. How much would your life be worth if it were known to the British authorities that you were in London? What would our German friends do to you if they knew the part you played at Warsaw?"

"You know of that?" she gasped.

"I know everything, Countess. But I wish you no harm. All I demand is that you gain and keep Faversham in your power."

"Why are you so anxious for him to be in my power?"

"Because then he will be in my power."

"Your power? Why do you wish him in your power? Do you want to do him harm?"

"Harm!" Then Romanoff laughed. "And if I do, what then?"

"That I refuse to serve you. Carry out your threats; tell the British authorities who I am. Tell the Germans what I did at Warsaw. I do not care. I defy you. Unless you promise me that you will not do Faversham harm, I will do nothing."

"Why are you interested as to whether I will do Faversham harm?"

"I am – that's all."

The Count was silent for a few seconds. Evidently his mind was working rapidly. "Look at me!" he cried suddenly, and, as if by some power she could not resist, she raised her eyes to his.

The Count laughed like one amused.

"You have fallen in love with him, eh?"

The girl was silent, but a flush mounted her cheeks.

"This is interesting," he sneered. "I did not think that Olga Petrovic, who has regarded men as so many dogs of the fetch-and-carry order, and who has scorned the thought of love, should have fallen a victim to the malady. And to a thick-headed Englishman, too! Surely it is very sudden."

"You sneer," she cried, "but if I want to be a good woman; what then?"

The Count waved his hand airily. "Set's the wind in that quarter, eh? Well, well. But it is very interesting. I see; you love him – you, Olga Petrovic."

"And if I do," she cried defiantly, "what then?"

"Only that you will obey me the more implicitly."

"I will not obey you," she cried passionately. "And remember this, I am not a woman to be played with. There have been many who have tried to get the better of Olga Petrovic, and – and you know the result."

"La, la!" laughed the Count, "and so my lady threatens, does she? And do you know, if I were susceptible to a woman's beauty, I should rejoice to see you angry. Anger makes you even more beautiful than ever. For you are beautiful, Olga."

"Leave my beauty alone," she said sullenly. "It is not for you anyhow."

"I see, I see. Now listen to me. If you do not obey me in everything, I go to Richard Faversham, and I tell him who and what you are. I give him your history for the last ten years. Yes, for the last ten years. You began your career at eighteen and now you are twenty-eight. Yes, you look a young girl of twenty-two, and pride yourself upon it. Now then, Countess, which is it to be? Am I to help you to win the love of Faversham – yes and I can promise you that you shall win his love if you obey my bidding – or am I to go to him and tell him who Olga Petrovic really is?"

The girl looked at him angrily, yet piteously. For the first time she seemed afraid of him. Her eyes burnt with fury, and yet were full of pleading at the same time. Haughty defiance was on her face, while her lips trembled.

"But if you tell him, you destroy my plans. You cannot do that, Count!" It was Mr. John Brown who spoke, and there was a note of terror in his voice.

"Your plans! What do I care for your plans?" cried the Count. "It is of my own plans I am thinking."

"But I thought, and as you know we agreed – "

"It is not for you to think, or to question my thoughts," interrupted the Count. "I allow no man to interpret my plans, or to criticise the way in which I work them out. But rest contented, my dear friend, John Brown," he added banteringly, "the success of your plans rests upon the success of my own."

While they were speaking Olga Petrovic gazed towards the window with unseeing eyes. She looked quite her age now: all suggestion of the young girl had gone, she was a stern, hard-featured woman. Beautiful she was, it is true, but with a beauty marked by bitter experience, and not the beauty of blushing girlhood.

"Well, Countess Olga, which is it to be?" asked Romanoff, who had been watching her while he had been speaking to Mr. Brown.