They went to nature for a precedent, and as she endows the tiger with stripes that are undistinguishable from the jungle grass, so the Red Hundred would choose for their meetings such a place where meetings were usually held.

  It was in the Lodge Room of the Pride of Millwall, AOSA—which may be amplified as the Associated Order of the Sons of Abstinence—that the trial took place. The financial position of the Pride of Millwall was not strong. An unusual epidemic of temperate seafaring men had called the Lodge into being, the influx of capital from eccentric bequests had built the tiny hall, and since the fiasco attending the first meeting of the League of London, much of its public business had been skilfully conducted in these riverside premises. It had been raided by the police during the days of terror, but nothing of an incriminating character had been discovered. Because of the success with which the open policy had been pursued the Woman of Gratz preferred to take the risk of an open trial in a hall liable to police raid.

  The man must be so guarded that escape was impossible. Messengers sped in every direction to carry out her instruction. There was a rapid summoning of leaders of the movement, the choice of the place of trial, the preparation for a ceremony which was governed by well-established precedent, and the arrangement of the properties which played so effective a part in the trials of the Hundred.

  In the black-draped chamber of trial the Woman of Gratz found a full company. Maliscrivona, Tchezki, Vellantini, De Romans, to name a few who were there sitting altogether side by side on the low forms, and they buzzed a welcome as she walked into the room and took her seat at the higher place. She glanced round the faces, bestowing a nod here and a glance of recognition there. She remembered the last time she had made an appearance before the rank and file of the movement. She missed many faces that had turned to her in those days: Starque, Francois, Kitsinger—dead at the hands of the Four Just Men. It fitted her mood to remember that tonight she would judge one who had at least helped in the slaying of Starque.

  Abruptly she rose. Lately she had had few opportunities for the display of that oratory which was once her sole title to consideration in the councils of the Red Hundred. Her powers of organization had come to be respected later. She felt the want of practice as she began speaking. She found herself hesitating for words, and once she felt her illustrations were crude. But she gathered confidence as she proceeded and she felt the responsive thrill of a fascinated audience.

  It was the story of the campaign that she told. Much of it we know; the story from the point of view of the Reds may be guessed. She finished her speech by recounting the capture of the enemy.

  'Tonight we aim a blow at these enemies of progress; if they have been merciless, let us show them that the Red Hundred is not to be outdone in ferocity. As they struck, so let us strike—and, in striking, read a lesson to the men who killed our comrades, that they, nor the world, will ever forget.'

  There was no cheering as she finished—that had been the order—but a hum of words as they flung their tributes of words at her feet—a ruck of incoherent phrases of praise and adoration.

  Then two men led in the prisoner.

  He was calm and interested, throwing out his square chin resolutely when the first words of the charge were called and twiddling the fingers of his bound hands absently.

  He met the scowling faces turned to him serenely, but as they proceeded with the indictment, he grew attentive, bending his head to catch the words.

  Once he interrupted.

  'I cannot quite understand that,' he said in fluent Russian, 'my knowledge of German is limited.'

  'What is your nationality?' demanded the woman.

  'English,' he replied.

  'Do you speak French?' she asked.

  'I am learning,' he said naively, and smiled.

  'You speak Russian,' she said. Her conversation was carried on in that tongue.

  'Yes,' he said simply; 'I was there for many years.'

  After this, the sum of his transgressions were pronounced in a language he understood. Once or twice as the reader proceeded—it was Ivan Oranvitch who read—the man smiled.

  The Woman of Gratz recognized him instantly as the fourth of the party that gathered about her door the day Bartholomew was murdered. Formally she asked him what he had to say before he was condemned.

  He smiled again.

  'I am not one of the Four Just Men,' he said; 'whoever says I am— lies.'

  'And is that all you have to say?' she asked scornfully.

  'That is all,' was his calm reply.

  'Do you deny that you helped slay our comrade Starque?'

  'I do not deny it,' he said easily, 'I did not help—I killed him.'

  'Ah!' the exclamation came simultaneously from every throat.

  'Do you deny that you have killed many of the Red Hundred?'

  He paused before he answered.

  'As to the Red Hundred—I do not know; but I have killed many people.' He spoke with the grave air of a man filled with a sense of responsibility, and again the exclamatory hum ran through the hall. Yet, the Woman of Gratz had a growing sense of unrest in spite of the success of the examination.

  'You have said you were in Russia—did men fall to your hand there?'

  He nodded.

  'And in England?'

  'Also in England,' he said.

  'What is your name?' she asked. By an oversight it was a question —she had not put before.

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  'Does it matter?' he asked. A thought struck her. In the hall she had seen Magnus the Jew. He had lived for many years in England, and she beckoned him.

  'Of what class is this man?' she asked in a whisper.

  'Of the lower orders,' he replied; 'it is astounding—did you not notice when—no, you did not see his capture. But he spoke like a man of the streets, dropping his aspirates.'

  He saw she looked puzzled and explained.

  'It is a trick of the order—just as the Moujik says…' he treated her to a specimen of colloquial Russian.

  'What is your name?' she asked again.

  He looked at her slyly.

  'In Russia they called me Father Kopab…'

  The majority of those who were present were Russian, and at the word they sprang to their feet, shrinking back with ashen faces, as though they feared contact with the man who stood bound and helpless in the middle of the room.

  The Woman of Gratz had risen with the rest. Her lips quivered and her wide open eyes spoke her momentary terror.

  'I killed Starque,' he went on, 'by authority.