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<h2 id="id02821" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> <h5 id="id02822">WORKING THE ORACLE </h5> We had food and wine, plenty of it, and very excellently served. The room in which we were imprisoned was more than comfortable—it was luxurious. There were couches and easy-chairs, magazines and shaded electric lights. Yet we could not rest for one moment. Adèle and I talked for an hour or so, and we had plenty to say, but in time the fever seized us too. The roar of the machinery below thrilled us through and through. It was the warning which, in a very few hours, would electrify the whole country, which was being whirled into type. I thought of Madame, and once I laughed. Three times Guest was sent for to give some information, mainly with regard to earlier happenings in Berlin, before our fateful meeting at the Hotel Universal. At last my turn came. It was interesting to visit, if only for a moment, the room where Staunton himself was writing this story. He was sitting at his table, his coat off, an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, an untasted cup of tea by his side. Two shorthand clerks sat opposite to him, a typist was hard at work a few yards away. Staunton called me over to him. His voice was hoarse and raspy, and there were drops of sweat upon his forehead. "Is it true, Mr. Courage," he said, "that you are still believed here to be dead?" "Certainly!" I answered. "I have not communicated even with my lawyers. My substitute's fate was enough to make me careful!" "Does any one know on this side?" "My cousin, Sir Gilbert Hardross. He is with us. He saw Polloch and tried all he could himself." "Good!" Staunton declared. "One more question. You say that on the committee of the Rifle Club was a German officer. Do you know who he was?" "I do," I answered. "I saw him at the club when I went to meet my cousin. His name is Count Metterheim, and he is on the military staff at the Embassy here." "Better and better," Staunton grunted. "That's all, thank you!" I went back to the room where the others were waiting. The few people whom I passed looked at me curiously. Already there were rumors flying about the place. In less than five minutes I was summoned again. Staunton looked up from his writing. "The news has come through of the wrecking of the Café Suisse," he said. "So far your story is substantiated. A man and a woman are in custody. Their names are Hirsch!" "He's a member of the committee!" I exclaimed. "I saw him bring in the bag. It was Madame, his wife, who distrusted me all the time." "Do you think," he asked, "that you were followed here?" "Very likely," I answered Staunton turned to a tall, dark young man who stood by his side. "Tell Mr. Courage what has happened," he said. The secretary looked at me curiously. "A man arrived about a quarter of an hour ago who insisted upon seeing Mr. Staunton. He hinted that he had an important revelation to make with regard to the Café Suisse outrage. He would not see any one else, and tried to force his way into the place. In the scuffle, a revolver fell out of his pocket, loaded in all six chambers." "What have you done with him?" I asked. "Handed him over to the police," the young man answered; "but I am afraid they would never get him to the station. Have you looked out of the window?" "No!" I answered. He shrugged his shoulders. "Do so!" he suggested. I crossed the room, and, drawing the blind aside carefully, looked out. The street was packed with people! Even as I stood there, I heard the crash of breaking glass below! "What does it mean?" I asked, bewildered. "Your Rifle Corps, I should think," Staunton said, without ceasing writing. "We closed the doors just in time. They will try to wreck the place." "We have telephoned to Scotland Yard and the Horse Guards," the man who stood by my side said, "and we have forty policemen inside the place now! Good God!" The sudden roar of an explosion split the air. The floor seemed to heave under our feet, and the windows fell in with a crash, letting in the cold night air. We could hear distinctly now the shrieks and groans from below. It seemed to me that the roadway was suddenly strewn with the bodies of prostrate men. I sprang back into the room, we all looked at one another in horror. I think that for my part I expected to see the walls close in upon us. "A bomb," Staunton remarked calmly. "Listen!" He leaned a little forward in his chair, his pen still in his hand, his attitude one of strained and nervous attention. By degrees the tension in his face relaxed. "It goes!" he muttered. "Good!" He bent once more over his work. I looked at the man by my side in bewilderment. "What does he mean?" I asked. "The engine! The machinery is not damaged!" was the prompt reply. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The silence in the room seemed almost unnatural, and behind it we could hear the dull, monotonous roar of the machinery, still doing its work. Once more I turned to the window, and as I did so I heard the sullen murmur of voices. A little way down the street a solid body of mounted police were forcing back the people. I made my way back to the other room, almost knocked down in the passage by a man, half-dressed, tearing along with a bundle of wet proofs in his hand. Adèle was standing by the wrecked window-frame—there were no more windows anywhere in the building—and she turned to me with a little cry. "Jim!" she exclaimed, "Look! Look!" I saw the line of fire and the policemen's saddles emptying fast. The people were closing round the building. Guest stood frowning by our side. "This is what comes," he said, "of making London the asylum for all the foreign scum of the earth. How goes it, Courage?" "Staunton is still writing, and the machinery is untouched." "For how long, I wonder," he muttered. "The police are going over like ninepins." I looked below longingly, for my blood was up. It was no ordinary mob this. They were beginning to fire in volleys now, and leaders were springing up. As far as we could see there was a panorama of white faces. It was easy to understand what had happened. We had been followed, and our purpose guessed. Tomorrow's edition of the Daily Oracle was never meant to appear! "The place will be at their mercy in another few minutes," Guest said gloomily. "Twenty-four hours ago who would have dared to predict a riot like this, in London of all places? Not all the police in Scotland Yard would be of any avail against this mob." "They may stop the paper," I said; "but Staunton's word—and these events—should go for something with Polloch." Guest looked at me and away out of the window. Adèle was behind us, and out of hearing. "Do you suppose," he said in a low tone, "that Staunton or any of us are meant to leave this place alive? I am afraid our friends below know too well what they are doing." The door opened, and Staunton himself appeared. He looked years older than the strong, debonair man to whom I had told my story a few hours ago, but in his face was none of the despair which I had feared. He was pale, and his eyes were shining with suppressed excitement, but he had by no means the air of a beaten man. He came over to where we were standing. "It is finished," he said calmly. "I read your story in print." "Magnificent," I murmured, "but look! Do you think that a single copy will ever leave this place?" He stood looking downwards with darkening face. For several moments he was silent. "Look at them!" he muttered. "At last! The tocsin has sounded, and the rats have come out of their holes! Half a million and more of scum eating their way into the entrails of this great city of ours. For years we have tried to make the government see the danger of it. It is our cursed British arrogance which has shut the ears and closed the eyes of the men who govern our destinies. Supposing your invasion should take place, who is going to keep them in check? The sack of London would be well on its way before ever a German soldier set foot upon our coast." "The question for the moment," I remarked, "seems to be how long before the sack of this place takes place. Look, the police are falling back. The mob are closing in the street!" Staunton was unmoved. "The soldiers are on their way," he answered. "We received a message just now by the private wire. The other has been cut. Look! My God, they've brought the guns! There are some men at headquarters who are not fools." We pressed close to the windows, and indeed it was a wonderful sight. From the far end of the street, where the police had retreated, men were flying in all directions. We caught a gleam of scarlet and a vision of grey horses. There was no parley. The dead bodies of the police in all directions, and the crack of the rifles, were sufficient. We saw the gleam of fire, and we heard the most terrible of all sounds—the quick spit-spit of the maxims. I drew Adèle away from the window. "Don't look, dear," I said, for already the ranks of the mob were riven. We saw the upflung hands, we heard their death cries. Leaders leaped up, shouting orders, only to go down like ninepins as the line of fire reached them. There was no hope for them or any salvation save flight. Before our eyes we saw that great concourse melt away, like snow before the midday sun. Staunton drew a great breath of relief. "In half an hour," he said, turning abruptly to Adèle, "I will present you with a copy of the Daily Oracle." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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