The Four Just Men · Chapter 7 (2/2)

“Stop! stop!” he shouted; “don’t look like that, in the name of God⁠—don’t, don’t!” He covered his face with shaking hands.

“Like what, Thery?” asked Leon, softly.

Thery shook his head.

“I cannot say⁠—like the judge at Granada when he says⁠—when he says, ‘Let the thing be done’!”

“If we look so,” said Manfred harshly, “it is because we are judges⁠—and not alone judges but executioners of our judgment.”

“I thought you would have been pleased,” whimpered Thery.

“You have done well,” said Manfred, gravely.

“Bueno, bueno!” echoed the others.

“Pray God that we are successful,” added Manfred solemnly, and Thery stared at this strange man in blank amazement.

Superintendent Falmouth reported to the commissioner that afternoon that all arrangements were now complete for the protection of the threatened minister.

“I’ve filled up 44, Downing Street,” he said; “there’s practically a man in every room. I’ve got four of our best men on the roof, men in the basement, men in the kitchens.”

“What about the servants?” asked the commissioner.

“Sir Philip has brought up his own people from the country, and now there isn’t a person in the house from the private secretary to the doorkeeper whose name and history I do not know from A to Z.”

The commissioner breathed an anxious sigh.

“I shall be very glad when tomorrow is over,” he said. “What are the final arrangements?”

“There has been no change, sir, since we fixed things up the morning Sir Philip came over. He remains at 44 all day tomorrow until half-past eight, goes over to the House at nine to move the reading of the bill, returns at eleven.”

“I have given orders for the traffic to be diverted along the Embankment between a quarter to nine and a quarter after, and the same at eleven,” said the commissioner. “Four closed carriages will drive from Downing Street to the House; Sir Philip will drive down on a motorcar immediately afterwards.”

There was a rap at the door⁠—the conversation took place in the commissioner’s office⁠—and a police officer entered. He bore a card in his hand, which he laid upon the table.

“Señor Jose di Silva,” read the commissioner, “the Spanish Chief of Police,” he explained to the superintendent. “Show him in, please.”

Señor di Silva, a lithe little man, with a pronounced nose and a beard, greeted the Englishmen with the exaggerated politeness that is peculiar to Spanish official circles.

“I am sorry to bring you over,” said Mr. Commissioner, after he had shaken hands with the visitor and had introduced him to Falmouth; “we thought you might be able to help us in our search for Thery.”

“Luckily I was in Paris,” said the Spaniard; “yes, I know Thery, and I am astounded to find him in such distinguished company. Do I know the Four?”⁠—his shoulders went up to his ears⁠—“who does? I know of them⁠—there was a case at Malaga, you know?⁠ ⁠… Thery is not a good criminal. I was astonished to learn that he had joined the band.”

“By the way,” said the chief, picking up a copy of the police notice that lay on his desk, and running his eye over it, “your people omitted to say⁠—although it really isn’t of very great importance⁠—what is Thery’s trade?”

The Spanish policeman knitted his brow.

“Thery’s trade! Let me remember”; he thought for a moment. “Thery’s trade? I don’t think I know; yet I have an idea that it is something to do with rubber. His first crime was stealing rubber; but if you want to know for certain⁠—”

The commissioner laughed.

“It really isn’t at all important,” he said lightly.