Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
Labour, then we none of us are. I don’t care whether he is the son of an earl, or a plasterer’s apprentice, as I was. He’s the right stuff, he has the gift of putting the words together, and his heart’s where it should be.”
“There is no one,” Penn said; his voice trembling a little, “who has a greater admiration for Paul Fiske’s writings than I have, but I still contend that he is not Labour.”
“Sit down, lad,” Cross enjoined. “We’ll have a vote on that. I’m for saying that Mr. Julian Orden here, who has written them articles under the name of `Paul Fiske’, is a full member of our Council and eligible to act as our messenger to the Prime Minister. I ask the Bishop to put it to the meeting.”
Eighteen were unanimous in agreeing with the motion. Fenn sat down, speechless. His cheeks were pallid. His hands, which rested upon the table, were twitching. He seemed like a man lost in thought and only remembered to fill up his card when the Bishop asked him for it. There was a brief silence whilst the latter, assisted by Cross and Sands, counted the votes. Then the Bishop rose to his feet.
“Mr. Julian Orden,” he announced, “better known to you all under the name of `Paul Fiske’, has been chosen by a large majority as your representative to take the people’s message to the Prime Minister.”
“I protest!” Fenn exclaimed passionately. “This is Mr. Orden’s first visit amongst us. He is a stranger. I repeat that he is not one of us. Where is his power? He has none. Can he do what any one of us can—stop the pulse of the nation? Can he still its furnace fires? Can he empty the shipyards and factories, hold the trains upon their lines, bring the miners up from under the earth? Can he—”
“He can do all these things,” Phineas Cross interrupted, “because he speaks for us, our duly elected representative. Sit thee down, Fenn. If you wanted the job, well, you haven’t got it, and that’s all there is about it, and though you’re as glib with your tongue as any here, and though you’ve as many at your back, perchance, as I have, I tell you I’d never have voted for you if there hadn’t been another man here. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, lad.”
“All further discussion,” the Bishop ruled, “is out of order. Julian Orden, do you accept this mission?”
Julian rose to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his stick. His expression was strangely disturbed.
“Bishop,” he said, “and you, my friends, this has all come very suddenly. I do not agree with Mr. Fenn. I consider that I am one with you. I think that for the last ten years I have seen the place which Labour should hold in the political conduct of the world. I have seen the danger of letting the voice of the people remain unheard too long. Russia to-day is a practical and terrible example of that danger. England is, in her way, a free country, and our Government a good one, but in the world’s history there arrive sometimes crises with which no stereotyped form of government can cope, when the one thing that is desired is the plain, honest mandate of those who count for most in the world, those who, in their simplicity and in their absence from all political ties and precedents and liaisons, see the truth. That is why I have appealed with my pen to Labour, to end this war. That is why I shall go willingly as your representative to the Prime Minister to-night.”
The Bishop held out his hand. There was a little reverent hush, for his words were in the nature of a benediction.
“And may God be with you, our messenger,” he said solemnly.
CHAPTER XVI
Julian, duly embarked upon his mission, was kept waiting an unexpectedly short time in the large but gloomy apartment into which Mr. Stenson’s butler had somewhat doubtfully ushered him. The Prime Minister entered with an air of slight hurry. He was also somewhat surprised.
“My dear Orden,” he exclaimed, holding out his hand, “what can I do for you?”
“A great deal,” Julian replied gravely. “First of all, though, I have an explanation to make.”
“I am afraid,” Mr. Stenson regretted, “that I am too much engaged this evening to enter into any personal matters. I am expecting a messenger here on very important official business.”
“I am that messenger,” Julian announced.
Mr. Stenson started. His visitor’s tone was serious and convincing.
“I fear that we are at loggerheads. It is an envoy from the Labour Party whom I am expecting.”
“I am that envoy.”
“You?” Mr. Stenson exclaimed, in blank bewilderment.
“I ought to explain a little further, perhaps. I have been writing on Labour questions for some time under the pseudonym of `Paul Fiske’.”
“Paul Fiske?” Mr. Stenson gasped. “You—Paul Fiske?”
Julian nodded assent.
“You are amazed, of course,” he proceeded, “but it is nevertheless the truth. The fact has just come to light, and I have been invited to join this new emergency Council, composed of one or two Socialists and writers, amongst them a very distinguished prelate; Labour Members of Parliament, and representatives of the various Trades Unions, a body of men which you doubtless know all about. I attended a meeting at Westminster an hour ago, and I was entrusted with this commission to you.”
Mr. Stenson sat down suddenly.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “You—Julian Orden!”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Stenson, however, was a man of immense recuperative powers. He assimilated the new situation without further protest.
“You have given me the surprise of my life, Orden,” he confessed. “That, however, is a personal matter. Hannaway Wells is in the study. You have no objection, I suppose, to his being present?”
“None whatever.”
Mr. Stenson rang the bell, and in a few minutes they were joined by his colleague. The former wasted no time in explanations.
“You will doubtless be as astonished as I was, Wells,” he said, “to learn that our friend Julian Orden comes here as the representative of the new Labour Council. His qualifications, amongst others, are that under the pseudonym of `Paul Fiske’ he is the writer of those wonderful articles which have been the beacon light and the inspiration of the Labour Party for the last year.”
Mr. Hannaway Wells prided himself upon never being surprised. This time the only way he could preserve his reputation was by holding his tongue.
“We are now prepared to hear your mission,” Mr. Stenson continued, turning to his visitor.
“I imagine,” Julian began, “that you know something about this new Labour Council?”
“What little we do know,” Mr. Stenson answered, “we have learnt with great difficulty through our secret service. I gather that a small league of men has been formed within a mile of the Houses of Parliament, who, whatever their motives may be, have been guilty of treasonable and traitorous communication with the enemy.”
“Strictly speaking, you are, without doubt, perfectly right,” Julian acknowledged.
Mr. Stenson switched on an electric light.
“Sit down, Orden,” he invited. “There is no need for us to stand glaring at one another. There is enough of real importance in the nature of our interview without making melodrama of it.”
The Prime Minister threw himself into an easy chair. Julian, with a little sigh of relief, selected a high-backed oak chair and rested his foot upon a hassock. Hannaway Wells remained standing upon the hearthrug.
“Straight into the heart of it, please, Orden,”