Karel Čapek - Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7

“Men and women who hear me today, I beseech you ponder the truth of what I have told you in your hearts. You boast of a civilisation unparalleled in the world’s history. Yet is it so? Side by side with wealth, appalling in its magnitude, stalks poverty, misery, and wrong, more appalling still. I aver that this poverty, misery, and wrong is, in a groat measure, due to the false and unnatural position awarded to woman; nor will justice, reparation, and perfection be attained until she takes her place in all things as the equal of man.

“And now, my friends, I will detain you no longer. In this great Hall of Liberty woman will find much which has long been denied her. It is but a drop in the ocean of that which is her right, yet is it a noble beginning of that which must inevitably come. I declare this Hall of Liberty to be open.”

That is all. He says no more, but with a stately inclination to the vast audience turns back to where his friends stand. His horse is led forward by a youthful orderly in the uniform of the White Regiment, and as he mounts it the band strikes up once more. Bareheaded as he entered, he rides slowly from the scene of his triumph, and passing again through the portals of the Hall of Liberty comes out into the densely, wall-lined street, amidst the roar of the thousands that are there to greet. Such is the welcome of the people to Hector D’Estrange.

LORD WESTRAY sits alone in his sanctum in Grosvenor Square. There is an anxious expression on his face, for he has been expecting some one who has not turned up. He has already consulted his watch about half-a-dozen times, and he consults it again. Then he gets up and rings the bell.

He can hear it tinkling downstairs from where he sits. “A smart servant,” he thinks to himself, “would have answered it quickly.” Yet he would think this no longer, if he could only hear “his smart servant’s” remark anent that bell.

“James,” calls out that worthy, who is seated in the room on an easy armchair in front of the fire-place, with his feet against the chimney-piece, “what bell’s that?”

“My lord’s, sir,” is the laconic reply from the lackey outside.

“Oh! ah! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again.”

The bell does peal again, this time furiously, and

Stuggins, with a face of disgust, pulls bis feet down from the chimney-piece.

“My word! what a hard time of it we have’s,” he ejaculates to himself, as he rises slowly from his seat to go upstairs.

On reaching Lord Westray’s sanctum, however, his face is composed and affable.

“This is the second time I’ve rung,” exclaims Lord Westray angrily. “Surely, Stuggins, there is some one in the house to answer the bell.”

“I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it,” responds Stuggins in a conciliatory voice. “Has no one called yet, Stuggins?” “No one, my lord.”

“Well, he’ll be here at any moment now. Mind he is shown up without any delay.” “Certainly, my lord.”

And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling. Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the door-bell. Lord Westray starts and listens. “It’s he!” he ejaculates briefly. And in a few minutes the “he” is politely waved in by Stuggins.

“Mr. Trackem, my lord.”

“All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home if any one else calls.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes the new-comer by the hand.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem,” he observes heartily. “Began to fear you were not coming. A little late, eh?”

“A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed.”

“Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem?”

“Yes,” responds this latter solemnly.

Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly.

“Where?” he asks eagerly.

“Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by shadowing Mr. D’Estrange.”

“Capital!” exclaims Lord Westray, with a laugh. “And does she still go under the name of Mrs. de Lara?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now, Mr. Trackem, what are your plans?”

Mr. Trackem puts on a mysterious look, walks quickly to the door of the sanctum, and opens it suddenly. “What do you want?” he inquires sharply of some one without.

“If you please, sir, I was just coming in to see if his lordship had rung,” answers Stuggins stolidly, who had never quitted the outside of the door since we last saw him, and who had been listening intently all the time.

“Lord Westray did not ring,” answers Mr. Trackem, coldly, “and you are not required.”

“Oh! very good, sir,” and Stuggins retires defeated, and much put about.

Mr. Trackem watches the butler’s retreating, form till it is out of sight, then he closes the door softly, and returns to his original place near Lord Westray.

“These are my plans, my lord. I propose to take down two of my men by rail. Two will be ample, as more might attract attention and be in the way. I shall send a brougham and smart pair of trotters the day before. I have ascertained by observation that Mrs. de Lara invariably goes for a walk in the evening by herself, that her servants do not sit up for her, as she writes in her study late at night, and I have further ascertained that she is frequently in the habit of leaving the house before any one is up, and coming up to town. This is a most valuable point, as her absence will attract no attention. But to be safe I have possessed myself of some of her writing paper and a sample of her writing, and a note will be duly left, apprising her maid of her departure, and intention to remain in London for a few days.”

“By Jove, Mr. Trackem, you are a smart one! I don’t see how your plan can fail,” exclaims the wicked earl with a laugh.

“I never fail, my lord, in any of these little businesses,” answers Mr. Trackem, with a suave smile.

“But ain’t you afraid of the police finding you out?” inquires Lord Westray, just a little nervously.

Mr. Trackem laughs outright. “Police!” he ejaculates . contemptuously. “What’s the good of them? Think they know a lot, know nothing. Why, my lord, the police are useless in matters of this sort; and as for detectives, why, it’s easy to green them up the wrong way. I don’t fear them. I’m a match for every noodle detective in and around Scotland Yard, I am,” and Mr. Trackem gives a self-satisfied laugh.

“Well, Mr. Trackem, when is it to be?” inquires the earl anxiously, after a short lull in the conversation.

“It’s to be the day after tomorrow,” answers Mr. Trackem. “To-morrow my men go down. I shall follow, and just give them a squint at the place, and then they’ll be all prepared for the next day. Never fear, my lord; by Wednesday she shall be in your power.”

“In my power!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly, through the ground teeth of the man whom Speranza de Lara had called, and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be amply and surely revenged.

“Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. Is not that so?”

“It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly.

Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving.