The Missioner Part 21

"I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you know, and remember the Paris of the tourist."

"Painful," he answered; "but it is done."

"The _Hotel de Luxe_!"

"I know it well."

"There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call themselves."

"'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted.

"Yes; I know them."

"There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an accent."

"I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.

"Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don't lose sight of him--and write to me."

"To-morrow night," he said, "I will renew my youth. I will search for him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the travelling Briton."

She nodded.

"You're a good sort, Gilbert," she said simply. "Thanks!"

CHAPTER XV

ON THE SPREE

High up on the seventh floor of one of London's newest and loftiest buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect--the table was strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room.

He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task.

Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.

"Victor, by glory!"

Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with outstretched hands. Macheson grasped them heartily and seated himself on the edge of the table.

"It's good to see you, d.i.c.k," he declared, "like coming back to the primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you's enough to stop a revolution."

"You're feeling like that, are you?" his friend answered, his eyes fixed upon Macheson's face. "Yes, I see you are. Go ahead! Or will you smoke first?"

Macheson produced his pipe, and his host a great tin of honeydew.

Macheson helped himself slowly. He seemed to be trying to gain time.

"Blessed compact, ours," the giant remarked, leaning back in his chair.

"No probing for confidences, no silly questions. Out with it!"

"I've started wrong," Macheson said. "I'll have to go back on my tracks a bit anyway."

Holderness grunted affably.

"Nothing like mistakes," he remarked. "Best discipline in the world."

"I started on a theory," Macheson continued thoughtfully. "It didn't pan out. The people I have been trying to get at are better left alone."

"Exactly why?" Holderness asked.

"I'll tell you," Macheson answered. "You know I've seen a bit of what we call village life. Their standard isn't high enough, of course. Things come too easily, their noses are too close to the ground. They are moderately sober, moderately industrious, but the sameness of life is at work all the time. It makes machines of the factory hands, animals of the country folk. I knew that before I started. I thought I could lift their heads a little. It's too big a task for me, d.i.c.k."

"Of course," Holderness a.s.sented. "You can't graft on to dead wood."

"They live decent lives--most of them," Macheson continued thoughtfully.

"They can't understand that any change is needed, no more can their landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian code seems all that any one expects from them. d.i.c.k, it's all they're capable of. You can't alter laws. You can't create intelligence. You can't teach these people spirituality."

"As well try to teach 'em to fly," Holderness answered. "I could have told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these Welshmen, though?"

"It's hysteria," Macheson declared. "If you can get through the hide, you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It's a debauch. I've been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly intellectual."

"What are you going to do now?" Holderness asked.

"I don't know," Macheson answered. "I haven't finished yet. d.i.c.k, curse all women!"

The giant looked thoughtful.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.

"It isn't serious," he declared. "It isn't even definite. But it's like a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an inland-bred viking! It's under my heel, d.i.c.k, but I can't crush it. I came away from Leicesters.h.i.+re because I was afraid."

"Does she--exist?" Holderness asked.

"Not for me," Macheson declared hurriedly. "Don't think that. I shouldn't have mentioned it, but for our compact."

Holderness nodded.

"Bad luck," he said. "This craving for something we haven't got--can't have--I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a generation. We'd build empires, we'd reconstruct society. It's a deadly germ, though, Victor, and it's the princes of the world who suffer most.

There's only one antidote--work!"

"Give me some," Macheson begged.

The giant looked at him thoughtfully.

"Right," he answered, "but not to-day. Clothes up in town?"