LITMIR.BIZ

      V - THE TIME LOCK

       Table of Contents

      Wendover glanced about him casually. His first care was to convey the impression that this was by no means the first time that he had been present in the Council Chamber.

      He saw a large, well-lighted room, elaborately and artistically furnished, in the centre of which was an oval table set out with supper for apparently half a dozen people. It was an extravagant cold repast, and on a sideboard in one corner of the room stood a number of bottles capped with gold foil. To the left of the draped and curtained window was a writing table, and over this, let into the wall, the door of a safe that swung open, as if pulled back by unseen hands, at the very instant that the clock on the mantelpiece finished striking twelve. There was something almost uncanny, almost forbidding in that quiet movement.

      There were five men in the room besides Wendover, each of them wearing a similar gold-fringed mask to the one that covered the daring adventurer’s face. No one took the slightest notice of him, no one bowed as he took his place, indeed, it seemed as if his intrusion had been more or less expected. He was face to face now, and well he knew it, with a handful of the most desperate criminals in Europe, each of which would have slit his throat without the slightest hesitation if only he made one false step. But he knew that his credentials were good, he had the gold disc in his pocket, and his mask was in perfect order. Then, cautiously, but with an air of careless indifference, he began to take stock of his companions. He saw a little man, with a dark olive complexion and closely trimmed beard, and yet another one, tall and swarthy, and spare to leanness. There were two others, one slender, yet wiry looking, with hair of a peculiar flaming red, with a touch of orange in it, and the last man short and thickset with a hideous twist in his lower lip, that a seemed to throb as if it had a pulse in it. These were details which Wendover’s trained eye and instinct absorbed and noticed almost mechanically. He knew, only too well, that these little signs and portents would interest him later on.

      But it was the fifth man who attracted Wendover’s particular attention—a man short, and inclined to be fat, and absolutely bald, with clean shaven lips which were thick and sensual, and hard and cruel at the same time. A blunt, pugnacious nose was scarcely concealed by the mask behind which Wendover could discern a pair of eyes, dull and lifeless, and at the same time menacing as those of a snake. The mask disguise was enough for all practical purposes, but those dreadful lips were not lost upon Wendover, and he knew now that he would recognise the man before him whenever they met in the future, and under all conditions. And that his very existence depended upon this remembrance. Wendover knew as if the man had risen from his seat and had threatened him by name. He knew that here was the man John Garcia, the man whom he had truly believed to be a prisoner in Geneva. But that had been all a mistake of course. In the light of recent information, gained only a few yards away there in the ball-room, Wendover had learnt, by a piece of pure good fortune, that his plans had miscarried. Doubtless John Garcia had obtained early tidings of his danger, and, secure in the knowledge that he was not known by sight to the Geneva police, had cajoled the hapless Detmar into impersonating him for the moment.

      The confirmation of this inspired Wendover, and spurred him on to the effort that lay before him. He had a healthy respect for this chief foe of his, and, indeed, for every man who sat round the table. For they were all after one thing. They called themselves anarchists, and the foe of the oppressor in every land, but every one of them, seated there, behind his black mask, turned a restless glance every now and again in the direction of the open safe. It was the contents of the safe they were after. For the sake of its precious contents, they were prepared to commit any crime under the sun, and they were prepared to sacrifice one another, and all the time John Garcia was sitting there, with murder in his heart, deliberately planning the destruction of his colleagues. One by one he would strike them down, as he had struck Detmar down an hour or so ago, with an unparalleled audacity that stamped him as a master criminal. And it was amongst those that Wendover had come, taking his life in his hands, fighting for a great stake in a good cause, for a pure and beautiful girl and the fortune that was undoubtedly hers.

      And, even as he stood there, conscious of his danger, he had his dreams. He knew that he had challenged the powers of darkness for something more than pure chivalry. He was stretching out his strong, right arm for the lifelong happiness and prosperity both of Zena Corroda and himself. And it was characteristic of the man that he had already made up his mind as to the future. It would be no fault of his if he did not win something infinitely more precious than the tempting vein of wealth behind that open door.

      It was John Garcia who spoke first, though, naturally, he did not speak in his private capacity, nor, indeed, were the Brotherhood aware of the real identity of the individual who addressed them. This was the reason for the masks—a precaution against treachery from one man to another. Garcia spoke in a hard, rasping voice, not much above a whisper, that carried to the farthest corner of the room.

      “I am here with a message,” he said. “I come here, representing the man who is known to you all by name as John Garcia, our accredited leader. So far, no one has seen him in the flesh, at least, under his proper name, and only about two of you, if as many, have the privilege of knowing him. Now,

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