Chapter 2

It was no unusual thing for George Copplestone to spring surprises on
his guests. He had a twisted sense of the dramatic, and twisted things
were expected from him. On some occasions he perpetrated the wildest and
most extravagant eccentricities, without the slightest regard for the
moral or artistic sensibilities of those on whom he imposed them--on
others he contented himself with less harrowing minor freaks--but the
object of thoroughly upsetting and confounding the mental balances of
his victims was invariably achieved. He delighted, and displayed
remarkable ingenuity, in providing orgies of the abnormal. He reveled in
producing an atmosphere of brain-storm, and in dealing sledge-hammer
blows at the intellects of his better balanced acquaintances. Often he
was in uncontrollable spirits--on fire with mental and physical
exuberance--sometimes he was morose and silent, and apparently weak.
Frequently he disappeared for considerable periods, and his house
appeared to be closed. But none saw his coming or going.

Strange rumors circulated about him from time to time. Certain social
circles, to which his wealth and position entitled him to the entree,
were closed to him. Over and above his wild extravagancies, he was
credited with vices that remained unnamed. It was said that things took
place in his house that sealed the lips of men and women. When his name
was mentioned in the clubs, some men shrugged their shoulders. When it
was spoken in the drawing-rooms, some women remained silent. There had
been an attempt to stab him, and twice he had been shot at. After the
second attempt, a woman had been heard to say bitterly that he must bear
a charmed life. He continued to pursue his strange ways with supreme
indifference to the opinions of his fellow-creatures.

The house he lived in was the only sort of house he could have lived
in. From the foundations to the topmost brick it was a mass of
bewildering crookedness. Nothing was straight. Not a single passage led
where it would have been expected to lead--not a staircase fulfilled
normal anticipations. Scarcely two windows in the whole building were
the same size--scarcely two rooms were the same shape--and not even two
contortions corresponded. There must have been a mile of unnecessary
corridors, dozens of incomprehensible corners and turnings, and at least
a score of unwanted entrances and exits. If the aim and object of the
architect, whoever he was, had been to reduce the unfortunate occupants
of his handiwork to a condition of hopeless mental entanglement, he
could not have created a more effective instrument for the purpose.
George Copplestone found it a residence after his own heart, and
delighted in the means it provided for gratifying his feverish
inspirations.

The room into which John Tranter and Monsieur Victorien Dupont were
ushered at eight-thirty on the following night presented an
extraordinary spectacle of lavish and indiscriminate decoration,
arriving at a general suggestion of something between a Royal visit and
preparations for a wildly enthusiastic Christmas. Flags and festoons,
flowers, real and imitation, fairy-candles and colored lamps, burning
with strange heavy scents, quaint fantastic shapes of paper, startlingly
illuminated--all massed into an indescribable disorder of light and
color. Five amazed people were awaiting further developments.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe was a charming widow of twenty-seven, who had
successfully gambled on her late husband's probable lease of life, and
was now in the throes of a wild attachment to George Copplestone, to
which he had shown himself by no means averse. She was somewhat languid
from an excess of luxury, unable to brook opposition even to a whim, and
as yet undefeated in the attainment of her desires, which were not,
perhaps, always to the credit of her sex. She had an insufficient
income, and a weakness for inscribing her signature on stamped slips of
paper, several of which, it was rumored, were in Copplestone's
possession. Her house in Grosvenor Gardens was an artistic paradise, and
was frequently visited by gentlemen from Jermyn Street, who seemed fond
of assuring themselves that its treasures remained intact.

A West-End clergyman, of Evangelical appearance, who translated French
farces under a _nom-de-plume_, was advocating, in confidence, the
abolition of the Censor to a well-known theatrical manager, whose assets
were all in the name of his wife. A bejeweled Russian danseuse, who
spoke broken English with a Highland accent, extolled the attractions of
theatrical investment to a Hebrew financier, who was feasting his eyes
on the curves of her figure, and hoping that she was sufficiently
hard-up. The entrance of Tranter and his huge companion created general
surprise. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe held up her hands prettily.

"You?" she exclaimed, to Tranter. "You--of all people--condescending to
visit our plane? The mystery is explained at once. The decorations are
for you--the Pillar of the State!"

"Indeed they are not," he assured her. He stood aside. "Permit me to
introduce my friend, Monsieur Dupont."

"This is delightful!" she smiled.

Monsieur Dupont bent over her hand.

"Madame," he declared, "I change completely my opinion of London."

"Where is Copplestone?" Tranter inquired, gazing with amazement round
the festooned room.

A frown passed over Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's face.

"He has not yet appeared. He sent in a message asking us to wait for him
here. He is up to some freak obviously."

"It is certainly a strange medley of color," Tranter admitted.
"Fortunately, I am not particularly susceptible--but to an artistic
temperament I can understand that the effect would be acute. What
extraordinary event can such a blaze be intended to celebrate?"

"I don't know," she returned, a little shortly. "He has told us
nothing."

Her eyes strayed anxiously to the door. The movements of her hands were
nervous.

"I wish he would come," she muttered--and stood away from them.

Tranter drew his companion across the room.

"Well?" he asked, smiling. "How do you like this somewhat showy
welcome?"

"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont slowly--"into what manner of house
have you brought me?"

"Copplestone is a curious fellow," Tranter replied. "I warned you to be
prepared for something unusual."

"It is a crooked house," said Monsieur Dupont. "It stands on a crooked
road, and there are crooked paths all round it. And everything is
crooked inside it."

"These decorations are crooked enough, at any rate," Tranter laughed.

"These decorations," said Monsieur Dupont, "are not only crooked--they
are bad. Very bad."

He lowered his voice. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"Don't you see," he whispered, "that decorations can be good or bad,
just as men and women can be good or bad? These decorations are bad.
They are a mockery of all decorations--a travesty the most heartless of
the motives for which good and pure people decorate. There is nothing
honest or straightforward about them. They are a mean confusion of all
the symbols of joy. They are put up for some cruel and detestable
purpose----"

The door flew open with a snap, and a young man of dishevelled
appearance burst into the room. His eyes were wild, and his face was
working with the intensity of his passion.

"Christine," he panted. "Christine...."

He stopped, and gazed round in a dazed fashion, clenching and
unclenching his hands.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sprang forward with a suppressed cry, and confronted
him tensely.

"Well?" she cried sharply--"what about Christine?"

He did not seem to be aware of her. He was staring at the flags, the
lights, the flowers, and the colored paper.

"It is true then," he muttered. "These things...."

The woman was as white as death. Her hands were locked together. She
swayed.

"What is true?" she gasped.

The young man took no notice of her. Copplestone's elderly manservant
appeared in the doorway, and approached him.

"Mr. Copplestone declines to see you, sir--and requests that you will
leave his house. I have orders, otherwise, to send for the police."

The young man drew himself up. He was suddenly quite composed and
dignified. The passion died out of his face, leaving an expression
almost of contentment in its place.

"I wish it to be understood," he said, addressing himself to the room
generally with perfect evenness, "that, rather than allow Christine
Manderson to become engaged to George Copplestone, I will tear her to
pieces with my own hands, and utterly destroy her." And he turned, and
walked quietly out of the room.

In the silence that followed all eyes were fixed on the white, rigid
woman. Her face was drawn and haggard. She seemed to have grown old and
weak. Her whole frame appeared to have shrunk under an overwhelming
blow. For some moments she stood motionless. Then, with a supreme effort
of self-control, she turned, and faced them steadily.

"I think," she said calmly, "that if Miss Manderson is in the house she
should be warned."

"Fellow was mad," said the theatrical manager.

"_Tout-a-fait_ daft," agreed the Russian danseuse.

"It would have been safer," Tranter remarked, "if he had been given in
charge."

There was something very like contempt in Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's glance.

"Do you know," she said quietly, "that that young man is a millionaire
who lives on a pound a week, and spends the remaining nine hundred and
ninety-nine pounds a week on saving lives and souls in places in London
that people like us try to avoid even hearing about? If it is madness to
devote your life and money to lifting some of the world's shadows--then
he is very mad."

"Mosth creditable," said the Hebrew financier.

She turned her back on them, and stood apart.

Monsieur Dupont laid a hand on Tranter's arm.

"My friend," he said--and there was the faintest tremor in his voice, "I
ask you again--into what manner of house have you brought me?"

"I am beginning to wish that I had _not_ brought you," Tranter returned.
"I don't like the atmosphere."

"That," said Monsieur Dupont, drawing him aside, "is where we differ. To
me the atmosphere is extremely interesting. If I were a sportsman, I
would make you a bet that this will be an eventful evening."

"I feel strongly," said Tranter seriously, "that we should be wise to
leave. We don't want to be mixed up in an affair with a madman."

Monsieur Dupont shook his head.

"The millionaire was not mad, my friend. He may have been mad yesterday.
He may be mad to-morrow. But he is very sane to-night."

"I don't like it," Tranter maintained. "I would much rather go. Events
under this roof have a trick of being a little too dramatic."

Laughter from the clergyman, the financier, and the danseuse, greeted
the conclusion of a story with which the theatrical manager had
attempted to relieve the strain. Monsieur Dupont drew Tranter still
further back.

"This Mademoiselle Manderson--do you know her?"

"No," Tranter replied. "I've never heard of her. I suppose she is some
new friend of Copplestone's. If she is really engaged to him, I don't
think she is altogether to be envied."

Monsieur Dupont's glance found Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.

"No," he remarked softly--"I do not think she is."

Two heavy curtains at the extreme end of the room were drawn apart, and
the figure of a man appeared between them--a tall, thick-set man, in
full evening-dress, with a large white flower in his button-hole. For a
moment he stood still, looking intently down the room.

"Copplestone," Tranter whispered to his companion.

"_Mon Dieu_," muttered Monsieur Dupont.

It was the face of a fanatic--wonderful, fascinating, cruel--a fanatic
who neither feared God nor regarded man--an infinite egotist. The fires
of a great distorted soul smoldered in his eyes. The broad, lofty
forehead proclaimed a mind that might have placed him among the rulers
of men--but instead he was little above the level of a clown. The
destinies of a nation might have rested in the hands that he turned only
to selfish fantasy. The whole appearance of him, arresting and almost
awe-inspiring as it undoubtedly was, had in it the repulsiveness of the
unnatural--and, with that, all the tragedy of pitiful waste.

To-night, he confronted his guests in an attitude, and with an air, of
triumph. But as Mrs. Astley-Rolfe turned quickly to him with something
of a challenge in her bearing, a faint mocking smile appeared and
lingered for a moment on his face. Then he moved aside, his hand on the
curtains.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said deliberately, "permit me to present you
to my fiancee--Miss Christine Manderson."

He drew the curtains apart.

"_Mon Dieu_," said Monsieur Dupont again.

A half-strangled sob came from the lips of Mrs. Astley-Rolfe. Tranter
uttered an exclamation. The danseuse, the clergyman, and the theatrical
manager burst into vigorous applause.

Framed in the darkness behind him was the white form of a woman, of
transcendent loveliness. In the soft light it seemed almost a celestial
figure. She smiled with entrancing sweetness, and held out her hands.

But as her gaze swept over the occupants of the room, the smile
vanished. Her eyes became fixed and staring; her face set. She uttered a
sharp cry--and fell forward in a dead faint.