THE KNAVE OF CLUBS.
By Job* K. L«ts, Author of "The Prisoner , * Secret," "In the Toils . " The Broken Fetter," "The Thumb Print," etc., etc. Round a small table in a poorly -furnished sitting-room sat two men engaged in a very simple card game. Before each lay a email packet of cards face downwards, and each held in Ms hand four or five~cards. Every man in turn, after a quick glance at hie cards, shuffled them, and held them out, face downwards, to the man -on his left, who drew one, added it to those he held, and then - in his turn presented the* cards he held to the man sitting on his left. As soon as anyone found that his hand contained a pair of like cards he dropped them on the packet lying before.him, and offered his diminished hand to his neighbour to draw from. They were, in fact, playiflg the children's game of "Old Maid," but they were playing it with a purpose. They were casting lots, and their object was to decide which of them ehouM take the life of a fellow man. _ The seven men were Anarchists, but they had not selected a royal personage or the head of a State as their victim, bat a great capitalist and successful manufacturer, Baron man who had made himeeif obnoxious to one of tbe most powerful trades unions in the country. Tbe Anarchist leaders believed that the murder of the Baron would not arouse any great in■dtignatiou in the public mind, while it would win recruits for them from among the more lawless spirits in tbe ranks of the union. Most of the conspirators were foreigners, as one could se« at a glance, but two at least were Englishmen. Of these one was the president or chairman, a man whose bully frame completely filled -the large armchair in which he eat. Hie square, cleanshaven face, his enormous jaw, and above ail his immensely broad forehead, showed thai the vigour of his intellect and the strength of his will corresponded with bw great physical powers. His bold prominent eyes, of a brown so deep that they were almost black, produced in mo«t men a vague sensation that was almost fear. He wae the kind of man of whom tyrants are made. At his right sat a man who wae a complete contrast to him—a weak, foolish face with good-natured eye* and a feebl* month qHaapa-MM* Mvtf&m* • Al«Vm IP4
moustache. This person was known to Jjxs comrades as Arthur S'H-ern, but Severn was not his real name. H-. like many another, had joined the Anarchists in th* hope of revenging himself upon '-society, and thus finding a balm for his wtnmded pride. For he was one of the world's f&LuresOne by one the conspirators dropped a pair of cards on the table. Sometimes two or three pairs would follow in rapid succession. The Knave of Spades, turned face uppermost in the centre of the tab , .* , , had be«n taken form the pack before the cards were dealt. And the man who. when all tlie pairs h s id fallen out, was left with a corresponding knave would b> llu- mini appointed by fate to be a murderer. Some of the players now held only two cards, some only one. They searched en* , another's faces/as if trying to discover who held the fatal knave, but the faces told nothing. The silence w,i« like the silence of a sepulchre. Not ;v sound was to be heard but that of the rapid shuffling of cards. As each man knew his own cards it followed that he might easily try to force a card which he wished to get rid of upon his left-hand neighbour, and this privilege was openly used. At len&ih a deep sigh of relief broke the stillness. One num. a Frenchman, had paited with his last card. He was out of the game. The Angel of Death had passed him by. Then a second fell out i'» like manner, then a third and a fourth The three remaining were the two English men and a Belgian named Prevost, wuo sat opposite them —each held one card only.
Arthur Severn tried to smile, but he could not keep his hand from shaking ac he held it out to take Prevosts's card. Yet his faith in his luck was still unshaken. Up to Chat time no knave had appeared in his* hand. The card he now held was the three of hearts. He took the card the Belgian held out to him— it was the knave of clubs.
He knew that his face was betraying him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the table as he-swiftly passed the fatal knave under the three of hearts, which he had in his hand when he drew the knave. Several times he changed the position of tbe two cards, now placing the knave underneath and now the three.
Which of the two should he leave uppermost when he. presented them to Randal, the president, for him to choose between them? The most obvious thing to do would be to leave the knave uppermost, but that seemed too simple. Then it struck him that Randal would expect him to put the knave underneath. The best way would be to leave it on the top.
Suddenly he stopped passing and repassing the cards and offered them to Randal. Kvery man at the table held his breath and leant forward to see the result. The strong incurs eyes sought those of the weak man—sought them and held them. Arthur Severn felt that piercing glance reading his very soul. A slight supercilious smile flitted over the resolute lips. Then Raridnl put out his band and took tbe uppermost cord. A feeble cackling laugh came from Severn's Hps. It stopped His jaw felib. His antalgjonist had dropped: two threes upon the table. He. glanced at. the card left in his own hand. It was the knave of clubs!
"Aly God I" he said in a whisper, "1 thought it wae the three 1" For the space of some sixty seconds ■he eat there like a man stupefied with opium, his vacant eyes fixed on the card, the fatal knave of clubs, which lay in front of him. Meantime one of tbe members had risen from the table, and producing a email revolver he carefully loaded it, and handed it to the president, Baying, "You had better tell him exactly what he has to do."
Randal pushed back his chair, and rising to hie feet, placed his hand on Severn's shoulder. But before he could utter a ■word Severn had sprung to hie feet and gripped him by the throat. So sudden, no unexpected, was ifoe attack that, -weak as he was in physique, he forced his powerful enemy backward upon tbe table. Fury blazed in his. eyes; hie wbole frame was quivering -with the force of bis hatred. . "Oun» you—curse you 'May God tn Heayeo curse you for ever," he hiseed out. "You have ruined me, foody and soul. My wife is starving—starving, and I am to be a murderer, and perish on the scaffold, all through you You persuaded me to join this gang of cut-throats-; —" But fey this,time the immensely superior strength of the president had asserted iteelf. Hβ irose to hi* full height and regarded his opponent with cold, contemptuous, disdain. w 'Take your hand from my collar, he said, quietly. The ofciher paid no attentionRandal seized him by both •wrists, and* by main force thrust Mm into a chair as if he ihad been a rebellions child. "Now, listen to me," he Raid, with cold insistence, quite ignoring tihe attack that had been made upoft ihim, "you know tnat the lot has fallen /upon you to carry out the order of th# as you have sworn to do. If you fail, you dde. Understand that clearly. "Baron Haxtmann lives at Lancaster Gate. Here ifl a plan of the house. I advise you to study it carefully. You see this window on the ground floor, looking upon the passage that leads to the back. It will be opened for you to-morrow night. You have nothing to do but to push up the sash and enter. To-morrow night, between two and three, you will go to the house, and make an entrance by that window. Then make your way, by the route marked in red lines in the plan, to the Baron's bedroom. He will be asleep, and your task -will be easy. ' When you are j satisfied that he is dead, lay ibis letter on his breast, and make the best of your way j back to the basement. If you are smart you will have no difficulty in reaching the window before the servants are about. Clamber out of the window, and walk away. Here is the revolver, and ft small dark lantern, which you can use if necessaY, but take care that you do not wake the baron by using it too much. I think that is all. The committee will meet here on the following night to receive your report, and to pass sentence of death upon you if you fail to do your duty." The revolver, the lantern, and the plan were handed to Severn, and mechanically I he thrust them into the pocket* of the loose coat he was wearing. Then he rose, and without another look at Randal followed the others to the row of pegs on which they had hung their hats. ne sought for his blindly, till «ome one found it for him, ana 'put it on his head. Then he stum Wed down the narrow, ill-lit stairs, and so out into the night. It did not occur to him <to go home; he forgot that his wife must be expecting his return. He walked on, he knew not why or whitber. The night was cold, for the month was November. Presently it began to snow, and he turned up the collar of his coat, without being the least aware that he had done so. He felt as one compelled t* be a spectator at a tragedy which he knew must be enacted before his eye*, agajnet his-will. For the rest, his brain was benumbed. Once the thought of flignt occurred to him, but only to be rejected. He could not fly without money, and te was absolutely pennilese—-besides, he could not desert hie wife, and she wae in no condition for travelling. Now and then he would stop through sheer weanness and lean againet some railings, or sink down on a doorstep; but he was always moved on by the police before his weaned limbs knew what it was to be rested.
Aβ tbe dawn broke he found himsetf at the door of a great gloomy house. Early as it was the street door stood wide open. Hβ entered, and climbed several flighteot eteirs till he came to the attic floor. The air was noisome as that of a common lodging-house, the walls were grimy with dirt.
Bight ender the alatea he come to a door at which he stopped. For a. moment he paused, his hand on the latch; itoen he quickly but noiselessly opened the door and passed inside. Sikmfc ac he was, the click of tie door handle waked a woman, who was sitting at a table, her head on her arms, last asleep. She lifted her head with * j«" k » and looked up with a bewildered air; then, her. giance falling on her husband, she rose with a cry, etagg«*ed acroei the Hbor to biak, »d Ull ea M* bxwuit, fruryiag .1m
face on his breast. When she.looked up ! again, a strange smile on her lips and tents j in her eyes, one could see that her cheeks j were pitiably thin, tbe lnws >howi«iT j under the white skin, and that lines ot suffering were carved on her brow. Though scarcely more than a girl, the. tirae of Ikt motherhood was not far off. "This is the first time you have left me alone, Arthur," she said, with a gentle look of reproach. "Where have you been?" "Thai's more than I can tell you. 1 was at—the club; and then I suppose 1 wandered about the streets. ,, "You α-iv wet with the niiet, and shaking ■niili cold--let nu- got you some hot coffee." I "Have you any, Katie?" i "A little, but I'm afraid it's the last we I have." ■ i The man uttered a groan, and sat J down at the table in an attitude of despair. while hi.s wife busied herself in coaxing the ashes of the fire into kindling a few pieces of fresh coal. Presently she came and leant over him, caressing his hair with her hand. "I heard from uncle last night," slie said. He looked up sharply, a question in hi' eyes. "He will do nothing for us, unless I leave you."
"You had better do it. I can't keep you, Katie," said the young man bitterly. She turned away her head, and passed her fingers rapidly across .her eyes. How her happy dream had faded! Only ten months ago how bright the world had seemed— that world which she and the man for whose .sake she had left home and friends, were to conquer hand in hand! How they had laughed at the idea that they might not be able to support themselves—that dark days might come. Tfie very suggestion ha/i seemed an insult. And now . No work, nothing loft to pawn, the rent unpaid, no one to lend a helping hand. It seemed cs if the coining babe must be born in a workhouse.
(His wife's words had had a sinister force for Severn's enfeebled brain. Her rich t'ncle would rot help her unless she left him. Would it not be well that he should leave her—leave her by the door that admits of no re-entering? What was he, what had he ever been to her but a burden and a trouble? But for him she would never .have known hunger, anxiety, and that desolation of spirit, that sense of being without a sure support on the ocean of life, that had already brought into her face the look of habitual suffering. Was it not better that he should go? She would mourn him for a time, but she would return to her uncle's house, and in a few weeks or months she would be nearly as> happy as she had been when she first met him. She would not forget him, but he would be a ghost in the fields of her memory, nothing more.
Such, too, would b6 a fitting end of his disastrous connection with the Anarchist •Society. To kill the man he had sworn to kill, and then 'himself. There were six charges in the revolver—two would suffice. ihis wife bent over him, her dress brushed against the pocket There the weapon lay, and he trembled lest she should detect its presence. He dreaded having to lie to 'her, as he would be forced to do if She moved away, suspecting nothing. After the coffee he fell asleep over the fire. In blie afternoon he was busy writing—writing for his wife an account of the murder club wliioh in a moment of despair he had linked himself to. He had to do this, or his conduct would appear to her quite inexplicable. He put the letter in an envelope, which he addressed to her, and slipped it into his pocket. The omly thing lie wanted now was a little money, just enough to pay his debts and his wife's fare to Glasgow, where her uncle lived. But how was he to get it? He could not tell.
At dusk he rose and put on Iris hat. Then he took his wife in his arms and kissed her. He tried to say something, but speed* was impossible to him. fehe, vaguely suspecting that something was amiss, olung to him, and would have detained and questioned him, but he gently put her arms aside, kissed her once more, and went out.
It was very cold, and he knew not which way to tarn. How was it possible that he should get the money he required? He ihad only a few hours nt his disposal. It s»emed as if tlie thing was simply impossible, unless he were to steal the money. Should ho steal the money? Could he? No; he did not think lie had the nerve, or the cunning, ox the audacity necessary for such a crime.
He wandered westward, through many streets, and sometimes he would stand at a street ■ corner, eyeing the passers-by, but none of them took any notice of him. After a> time he came to a wide thoroughfare, bordered by spacious imposing buildings, He was in Clubland, though he did not know it.
For some minutes ihe stood by a broad flight of shallow steps, leading to the entrance to one of t/hose buildings, for no better reason than because he was uncertain where he should go next; and as he waited there a- hansom dashed up, and *a man alighted. "By the way, I may as well jpay you that fiver you won from me," c*Ued out another man, who was left Bitting in ilhe cab. He handed something to his friend, who uttered a word of acknowledgment, and thrust it carelessly into his waistcoatpocket. Severn, who was standing close by looked at iiim fixedly. He saw a man somewhat past middle age, with a fre&h-coloured complexion, dark grey hair, and a moustache rather darker joined in the old-fashioned way to a pair of full-sized whiskers, leaving a pink smooth-shaven chin. Not unnaturally the clubman supposed from Severn's persistent yet melancholy stare that he was silently bagging, and drawing ■some coins from his pocket he selected one, smiling a little as Ire did so, and slipped it info his hand. The young man hesitated a moment, then thanked him and turned away. At his third or fourth step it struck him that the shilling felt heavy in his hand. He gvanced at it—it was yellow.
His heart beat a little faster, and he walked on, but before he had done ten yard* he bearii a -voice calling him and stood still. The man who had given him the coin was beckoning to him, and he walked back. "Tha-t was a shilling I gave you just now, wasn't it?"
"No, it was a sovereign. Here it is," and he held it out-
The other fook it, looking keenly at him the while, and noting the pale face and shabby yet respectable clothes. Severn half expected that the gentleman would tell him to keep the sovereign, but he did not. A sudden thought had crossed his mind. He dropped the sovereign into his waistcoat pock-eft, and drew out,the five-pound note that had just been given to him. "You are an honest man—the first I have seen for some time," he said , , and held out tbe note.
Twenty-four hours before such a cum would have meant new hope, new life for this step-child of Fortune, but now —what did it matter? This windfall would make things a little smoother for Katie, that was all. For himself, he would soon be beyond caring for such things. He thanked the donor civilly, but without any show of enthusiasm, and walked away. The older man looked after him fcr a few -seconds.
"Curioua beggaf—didn't seem even glad to get it. Yet I'd bet it's weeks since he bad a decent meal," he said to himself as he went up the steps. Severn went to a coffee shop, and there he wrote a not* to his wife, enclosing the bank note. He hadn't pence enough to pay for the coffee, the paper and envelope, the peerage and registration fee, but he got the mooer by pawning hit old meerschaum pipe. The fetter once posted he felt easier in his mind. ;
Six hours later Arthur Severn stood outeide Baron Hartmann's house at Lancaster Gate. The streets were absolutely empty, and he hesitated' for a moment at the mouth of the side street which ha bad been told to enter, ac if in the hope that some policeman would pass, ami thus warrant his postponing his task. But no one was in wght, and he passed down the flagged footpath, his footsteps echoing noisily. It seemed aj if he knew the window before he came to it—a narrow window of frosted glass- He was right. Tbe window tod been left unlatched. Hβ pmbed up the «ash, and found that it ran without co much «t a squeak. In a few Mcond* be was in*w«, iMtttag with thratfeiaf baart. ZbtiKtt>
nes-, was profound. Feeling to make enr» that the revolver was in its place, he firtw out the tiny lantern he carried, and lit it. Then, by ite help. 1» referred to his plan, and easily identified the doors and corridors through which he had to pass.
He Rtole softly through the silent house, up the wide, thickly-carpeted staircase, dimly lighted even at midnight, and along a corridor till ho came to the door of the room marked with a red cross upon 'the, plan—the Baron's bed-chamber.
For a few seconds he paused with liis hand on the door handle. The. supreme moment had come. He bad fully made up his mind what he should do. *Ho would keep his oath, and carry out the orders that had bee>n given him ; and as soon as he saw that lib shots had taken effect lie would turn the revolver upon himself, and end his miseries, and set his wife free at one stroke. He calculated that he would have pkaity of time to do this before the noise of the" reports couild bring anyone into the room, even if the baron's valet were sleeping in an adjoining chamber. It only needed a minute's resolute action, and "all would be over.
Cautiously he turned tbe handle and entered.
The Toom was in total durkness, and he drew the dark lantern from hie pocket, and touched the slide. He could now see a broad bedstead, and the figure of a man lying asleep. He took out his revolver, and with steps that, made m> sound approached the bed. The baron was lying on his side, his face turned away from him. Nothing could have suited better. One shot, fired close to his ear, ought to be enough. He took from his pocket an envelops which had been given to him by Randal, containing a declaration that the baron had bten "executed"' in the name of humanity, and laid it on the bed. Then he raised his weapon, and pointed it towards' the sleeping form.
At that instant the baron stirred in his sleep, and without opening his eyes turned round on his back. The light from the lantern fell full «# his face. Severn looked, and his hand shook so that it was a wonder that the revolver did not go off of its own accord. He knew the face; he remembered the heavy moustache meeting the- whiskers, the smooth-shaven chin. It was the man who had, given him the five-pound not* that very night! He laid the revolver down on the counterpane, and, trembling all over, sank on his knees by the eide of the bed. Shoot that man, the only man who for months past, hod done him a kindness? It was impossible! He covered his face with his hands. His mind was in a tumult; he could not think coherently. He bad sworn to kill this man, but he could not do it. Then his life would be forfeited to the Society. But, again, he hnd already resolved* to die. Why change that part of his resolution? Better die now than endure the living death of waiting for an assassin's knife. And he had already resolved to put an end to himself. "Why delay?" something ■whispered to him—"Why delay?" Without looking up, he put out hia hand, seized the weapon, and, turning ■round on his knees so as to face away from the baron, he put the muzzle, of the pistol to Ms ear. It was not easy to press the triggernot easy! Yet it must be done. Now be would do it—now! A firm hand closed upon 'his, and a fingre was thrust inside the trigger guard, so that he could not fire. He knew what had happened. The baron had awoke, and seized his hand. He made no resiatanoe, and allowed the revolve* to be taken from him as if he had been a child. "Oant you find any other place for doing that than my bedroom?" No answer. "Turn round. Now, who are you? Why did you come here?" "I came to kill you." "Irfdeed? And you thought better of it —thought you would shoot yourself instead?" "I could not shoot you." "Why?" "Because I saw you—you tamed is bed, and I saw tihat you were the* man who gare me five pounds a few ours ago. "Iβ it possible?" For perhaps a minute both were silent. "But why did you wish to murder me?" Severn told him. "How am I to know that you an telling me the truth*t" he demanded. Severn pointed to the letter lying on the bed. The baron took it up and read it. "And you intended to kill yourself rather than wait to be shot at by one of your friends?" "Yes--«nd besides, I fchougW; my wife would be better without me." "Your wife? Poor woman 1 Socfo wretches as you do not deserve to have wives. Empty your pockets. Come!" The young man obeyed. Among the other things he laid on the counterpane was the letter to hie wife, which he had written the day before. The baron took it up and looked at the address. "I tibial 1 keep you here for the night. To-morrow -this shall go into the hands of the police." The baron rose, threw.on a dressing-gown, and led his prisoner into a small bedroom opening out <.>f (his own, in which this valet sometimes slept. Thai he locked him in, and Severn threw himself upon tJhe bed and slept.
When he awoke it was brood daylight. On a chair by hie bedside was a tray with food and drink enough to last Mm for a day. He ate and drank, and lay down again. At intervals he dosed, when he was fully awake 'he was too tired to make may effort to find*out -what his fait© wae to be. When the darkness fell he slept again. He was awakened by a band on hia shoulder, and he started up.
"You need not be alarmed," eaid* the baron, sitting down by his bedside. "Your wretohedness has been your best defence. I could i»t find it in my heart to give youup to tfce police. But i gave them your letter—the letter you wrote to your wife. They were glad k> get it. To-night they surrounded tine house -where your friends met, and captured the wliole gang. Lucky for you that you weren't there. Most of them, I am told, are wanted by foreign governments on one charge or anot&ei>—a man called Randal, in particular. 1 don't
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Press, Volume LX, Issue 11496, 31 January 1903, Page 3
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4,572THE KNAVE OF CLUBS. Press, Volume LX, Issue 11496, 31 January 1903, Page 3
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