not intend appearing, and the members gathered in the smoking-room and lobby to speculate upon the matter which was uppermost in their minds.
In the vicinity of Palace Yard a great crowd had gathered, as in London crowds will gather, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the man whose name was in every mouth. Street vendors sold his portrait, frowsy men purveying the real life and adventures of the Four Just Men did a roaring trade, and itinerant street singers, introducing extemporised verses into their repertoire, declaimed the courage of that statesman bold, who dared for to resist the threats of coward alien and deadly anarchist.
There was praise in these poor lyrics for Sir Philip, who was trying to prevent the foreigner from taking the bread out of the mouths of honest working men.
The humour of which appealed greatly to Manfred, who, with Poiccart, had driven to the Westminster end of the Embankment; having dismissed their cab, they were walking to Whitehall.
"I think the verse about the 'deadly foreign anarchist' taking the bread out of the mouth of the home-made variety is distinctly good," chuckled Manfred.
Both men were in evening dress, and Poiccart wore in his button-hole the silken button of a Chevalier of the Legion d'Honneur.
Manfred continued:
"I doubt whether London has had such a sensation since--when?"
Poiccart's grim smile caught the other's eye and he smiled in sympathy.
"Well?"
"I asked the same question of the maitre d'hotel," he said slowly, like a man loath to share a joke; "he compared the agitation to the atrocious East-End murders."
Manfred stopped dead and looked with horror on his companion.
"Great heavens!" he exclaimed in distress, "it never occurred to me that we should be compared with--him!"
They resumed their walk.
"It is part of the eternal bathos," said Poiccart serenely; "even De Quincey taught the English nothing. The God of Justice has but one interpreter here, and he lives in a public-house in Lancashire, and is an expert and dexterous disciple of the lamented Marwood, whose system he has improved upon."
They were traversing that portion of Whitehall from which Scotland Yard runs.
A man, slouching along with bent head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, gave them a swift sidelong glance, stopped when they had passed, and looked after them. Then he turned and quickened his shuffle on their trail. A press of people and a seeming ceaseless string of traffic at the corner of Cockspur Street brought Manfred and Poiccart to a standstill, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. They were subjected to a little jostling as the knot of waiting people thickened, but eventually they crossed and walked towards St Martin's Lane.
The comparison which Poiccart had quoted still rankled with Manfred.
"There will be people at His Majesty's tonight," he said, "applauding Brutus as he asks, 'What villain touched his body and not for justice?' You will not find a serious student of history, or any commonplace man of intelligence, for the matter of that, who, if you asked, Would it not have been God's blessing for the world if Bonaparte had been assassinated on his return from Egypt? would not answer without hesitation, Yes. But we--we are murderers!"
"They would not have erected a statue of Napoleon's assassin," said Poiccart easily, "any more than they have enshrined Felton, who slew a profligate and debauched Minister of Charles I. Posterity may do us justice," he spoke half mockingly; "for myself I am satisfied with the approval of my conscience."
He threw away the cigar he was smoking, and put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to find another. He withdrew his hand without the cigar and whistled a passing cab.
Manfred looked at him in surprise.
"What is the matter? I thought you said you would walk?"
Nevertheless he entered the hansom and Poiccart followed, giving his direction through the trap, "Baker Street Station."
The cab was
In the vicinity of Palace Yard a great crowd had gathered, as in London crowds will gather, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the man whose name was in every mouth. Street vendors sold his portrait, frowsy men purveying the real life and adventures of the Four Just Men did a roaring trade, and itinerant street singers, introducing extemporised verses into their repertoire, declaimed the courage of that statesman bold, who dared for to resist the threats of coward alien and deadly anarchist.
There was praise in these poor lyrics for Sir Philip, who was trying to prevent the foreigner from taking the bread out of the mouths of honest working men.
The humour of which appealed greatly to Manfred, who, with Poiccart, had driven to the Westminster end of the Embankment; having dismissed their cab, they were walking to Whitehall.
"I think the verse about the 'deadly foreign anarchist' taking the bread out of the mouth of the home-made variety is distinctly good," chuckled Manfred.
Both men were in evening dress, and Poiccart wore in his button-hole the silken button of a Chevalier of the Legion d'Honneur.
Manfred continued:
"I doubt whether London has had such a sensation since--when?"
Poiccart's grim smile caught the other's eye and he smiled in sympathy.
"Well?"
"I asked the same question of the maitre d'hotel," he said slowly, like a man loath to share a joke; "he compared the agitation to the atrocious East-End murders."
Manfred stopped dead and looked with horror on his companion.
"Great heavens!" he exclaimed in distress, "it never occurred to me that we should be compared with--him!"
They resumed their walk.
"It is part of the eternal bathos," said Poiccart serenely; "even De Quincey taught the English nothing. The God of Justice has but one interpreter here, and he lives in a public-house in Lancashire, and is an expert and dexterous disciple of the lamented Marwood, whose system he has improved upon."
They were traversing that portion of Whitehall from which Scotland Yard runs.
A man, slouching along with bent head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, gave them a swift sidelong glance, stopped when they had passed, and looked after them. Then he turned and quickened his shuffle on their trail. A press of people and a seeming ceaseless string of traffic at the corner of Cockspur Street brought Manfred and Poiccart to a standstill, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. They were subjected to a little jostling as the knot of waiting people thickened, but eventually they crossed and walked towards St Martin's Lane.
The comparison which Poiccart had quoted still rankled with Manfred.
"There will be people at His Majesty's tonight," he said, "applauding Brutus as he asks, 'What villain touched his body and not for justice?' You will not find a serious student of history, or any commonplace man of intelligence, for the matter of that, who, if you asked, Would it not have been God's blessing for the world if Bonaparte had been assassinated on his return from Egypt? would not answer without hesitation, Yes. But we--we are murderers!"
"They would not have erected a statue of Napoleon's assassin," said Poiccart easily, "any more than they have enshrined Felton, who slew a profligate and debauched Minister of Charles I. Posterity may do us justice," he spoke half mockingly; "for myself I am satisfied with the approval of my conscience."
He threw away the cigar he was smoking, and put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to find another. He withdrew his hand without the cigar and whistled a passing cab.
Manfred looked at him in surprise.
"What is the matter? I thought you said you would walk?"
Nevertheless he entered the hansom and Poiccart followed, giving his direction through the trap, "Baker Street Station."
The cab was
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