And then turning the subject swiftly, he asked, "Your patron, he has left England, has he not?"

"He has gone to Paris, I believe."

"Did he speak of the business that took him there?"

"He never speaks of business to me. He has asked me once or twice about the poor people down here and I have tried to tell him. Such a fortune as his could redeem thousands of lives, Paul. I have told him that when he spoke to me."

"Such a man will never redeem one life. All the money in the world will never buy him rest. He has eaten his harvest and the fields are bare.

Did you mention my name to him?"

"I do not think that I have done so yet."

"Naturally, you would have been a little ashamed to speak of us. It is very rarely that one who becomes rich remembers those who were poor with him. His money only teaches him to judge them. Those who were formerly his friends are now spendthrifts, extravagant folk who should not be injured by a.s.sistance. The rich man makes their poverty an excuse for deserting them, and he cloaks his desertion beneath lofty moral sentiments. You are too young to do so, but the same spirit is already leading you. Beware of it, Alban Kennedy, for it will lead you to destruction."

Alban did not know how to argue with him. He resented the accusation hotly and yet could make no impression of resentment upon the imagined grievance which old Paul nursed almost affectionately. It were better, he thought, to hold his tongue and to let the old man continue.

"Your patron has gone to Paris, you say? Are you sure it is to Paris?"

"How could I be sure. I am telling you what was told to me. He is to be back in a few days' time. It is not to be expected that he would share his plans with me."

"Certainly not--he would tell you nothing. Do you know that he is a Pole, Alban?"

"A Pole? No! Indeed he gives it out that he was born in Germany and is now a naturalized British subject."

"He would do so, but he is a Pole--and because he is a Pole he tells you that he has gone to Paris when the truth is that he is at Berlin all the time."

"But why should he wish to deceive me, Paul--what am I to him?"

"You are one necessary to his salvation--perhaps it is by you alone that he will live. I could see when I first spoke to you how much you were astonished that I knew anything about it, but remember, every Pole in London knows all about his fellow-countrymen, and so it is very natural that I know something of Richard Gessner. You who live in his house can tell me more. See what a gossip I am where my own people are concerned.

You have been living in this man's house and you can tell me all about it--his tastes, his books, his friends. There would be many friends coming, of course?"

"Not very many, Paul, and those chiefly city men. They eat a great deal and talk about money. It's all money up there--the rich, the rich, the rich--I wonder how long I shall be able to stand it."

"Oh, money's a thing most people get used to very quickly. They can stand a lot of it, my boy. But are there not foreigners at your house--men of my own country?"

"I have never seen any--once, I think, Mr. Gessner was talking to a stranger in the garden and he looked like a foreigner. You don't think I would spy upon him Paul?"

"That would be the work of a very ungrateful fellow. None the less, if there are foreigners at Hampstead--I should wish to know of it."

"You--and why?"

"That I may save your kind friend from certain perils which I think are about to menace him. Yes, yes, he has been generous to you and I wish to reward him. He must not know--he must never hear my name in the matter, but should there be strangers at Hampstead let me know immediately--write to me if you cannot come here. Do not delay or you may rue it to the end of your days. Write to me, Alban, and I shall know how to help your friend."

He had spoken under a spell of strong excitement, but his message delivered, he fell again to his old quiet manner; and having exchanged a few commonplaces with the astonished lad plainly intimated that he would be alone. Alban, surprised beyond measure, perceived in his turn that no amount of questioning would help him to a better understanding; and so, in a state of perplexity which defied expression, he said "Good night"

and went out into the quiet street.

CHAPTER XIV

THERE ARE STRANGERS IN THE CAVES

It was some time after midnight when Alban reached Broad Street Station and discovered that the last train for Hampstead had left. A certain uneasiness as to what his new friends would think of him did not deter him from his sudden determination to turn westward and seek out his old haunts. He had warned Richard Gessner that no house would ever make a prisoner of him, and this quick desire for liberty now burned in his veins as a fever. It would be good, he thought, to sleep under the stars once more and to imagine himself that same Alban Kennedy who had not known whither to look for bread--could it be but five short weeks ago!

The city was very still as he pa.s.sed through it and, save for a broken-down motor omnibus with a sleepy conductor for its guardian, Cheapside appeared to be almost dest.i.tute of traffic. The great buildings, wherein men sought the gold all day, were now given over to watchmen and the rats, as the bodies of the seekers would one day be given over to the earth whence they sprang. Alban depicted a great army of the servants of money asleep in distant homes, and he could not but ask what happiness they carried there, what capacities for rest and true enjoyment.

Was it true, as he had begun to believe, that the life of pleasure had cares of its own, hardly less supportable than those which crushed the poor to the very earth? Was the daily round of abundance, of lights and music and wine and women--was it but the basest of shams, scarce deceiving those who practised it? His brief experience seemed to answer the question in the affirmative. He wondered if he had known such an hour of true happiness as that which had come to him upon the last night he had spent in the Caves. Honesty said that he had not--and to the Caves he now turned as one who would search out forgotten pleasures.

The building in St. James' Street had made great advance since last he saw it, but he observed to his satisfaction that the entrance to the subterranean pa.s.sages were not absolutely closed, and he did not doubt that many of the old night-hawks were still in possession. His astonishment, therefore, was considerable when, upon dropping into the first of the pa.s.sages, a figure sprang up and clutched him by the throat, while a hand thrust a lantern into his face and a pair of black eyes regarded him with amazed curiosity.

"A slap-up toff, so help me Jimmy! And what may your Royal Highness be doing this way--what brings you to this pretty parlor? Now, speak up, my lad, or it will go queer with you."

Alban knew in an instant--his long experience taught him--that he had fallen into the hands of the police, and his first alarms were very real.

"What right have you to question me?"

"Oh, we'll show our right sharp enough. Now, you be brisk--what's your name and what are you doing here?"

"I am the son of Mr. Richard Gessner of Hampstead and I used to know this place. I came down to have a look at it before the building is finished. If you doubt me, let us go to Mr. Gessner's house together and he will tell you who I am."

It was a proud thing to say and he said it with pride. That thrill of satisfaction which attends a fine declaration of ident.i.ty came to Alban then as it has done to many a great man in the hour of his vanity. The son of Richard Gessner--yes, his patron would acknowledge him for that!

The police themselves admitted the t.i.tle by almost instant capitulation.

"Well, sir, it's a queer place to come to, I must say, and not very safe either for a gentleman in your position. Why didn't you ask one of us to bring you down? We'd have done it right enough, though not to-night perhaps."

"Then you're out on business?"

"You couldn't have guessed better, sir. We're here with the nets and there will be herrings to salt in the morning. If you care to wait five minutes, you may look into the bundle. Here's two or three of them coming along now and fine music they're making, I must say. Just step aside a minute, sir, while we give a hand. That's a woman's voice and she's not been to the Tabernacle. I shouldn't wonder if it was the flower girl that hobn.o.bs with the parson--oh, by no means, oh dear, no."

He raised his lantern and turned the light of it full on the pa.s.sage, disclosing a spectacle which brought a flush of warm blood to Alban's cheeks and filled him with a certain sense of shame he could not defend.

For there were three of his old friends, no others than Sarah and the Archbishop of Bloomsbury with the boy "Betty," the latter close in the custody of the police who dragged him headlong, regardless of the girl's shrieks and the ex-clergyman's protests upon their cruelty. For an instant Alban was tempted to flee the place, to deny his old friends and to surrender to a base impulse of his pride; but a better instinct saving him, he intervened boldly and immediately declared himself to the astonished company.

"These people are friends of mine," he said, to the complete bewilderment of the constables, "please to tell me why you are charging them?"

"Gawd Almighty--if it ain't Mr. Kennedy!"--this from the woman.

"Indeed," said the clergyman, with a humility foreign to him, "I am very glad to see you, Alban. Our friend 'Betty' here is accused of theft. I am convinced--I feel a.s.sured that the charge is misplaced and that you will be able to help us. Will you not tell these men that you know us and can answer for our honesty?"

The lad "Betty" said nothing at all. His eyes were very wide open, a heavy hand clutched his ragged collar, and the police stood about him as though in possession of a convicted criminal.

"A young lad, sir, that stole a gold match-box from a gentleman and has got it somewhere about him now. Stand up, you young devil--none of your blarney. Where's the box now and what have you done with it?"

"I picked it up and give it to Captain Forrest--so help me Gawd, it's true. Arst him if I didn't."

The sergeant laughed openly at the story.

"He run two of our men from the National Sporting right round Covent Garden and back, sir," he said to Alban. "The gentleman dropped the box and couldn't wait. But we'll see about all that in the morning."