# Lord Stranleigh, Philanthropist/Chapter 2

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CHAPTER II.
THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERE.
Lord Stranleigh was not house-cleaning exactly, but rather furbishing up a bit, for he expected a distinguished visitor. The rapprochement between Russia and Britain was to be helped forward another notch by the entertainment of His Highness Prince Azov. A great banquet at the Guildhall had been arranged, presided over by the Lord Mayor, and attended by members of the Cabinet, Ambassadors, Ministers, representatives of science, art, and literature, with a generous sprinkling of English nobility; indeed, one or two scions of the Royal Family would occupy seats of honour at the Guildhall table. The Prince was to be presented with the Freedom of the City in a gold box, and during the first week of his stay in London some important and dignified function was allotted to every day.
Throughout this week the Prince was to be the ​guest of the Russian Embassy; after that he came to Lord Stranleigh, removed the decorations of his rank, and then the pair, who were old friends, intended to have a good time together like any other young men about town.
Stranleigh was giving final instructions regarding the preparation of the suite of rooms for Prince Azov's occupation when the usually imperturbable Ponderby came in, betraying a state of agitation which filled his master with astonishment. Ponderby's stout figure seemed to have shrunk. His erstwhile rubicund countenance was actually pale, and his face wore a crestfallen expression almost akin to terror that was not without its touch of comicality. Indeed, Stranleigh almost smiled, and, in fact, would have smiled, had the victim been a man of less consequence than his indispensable valet. But instead of smiling, he spoke very calmly.
"Well, Ponderby, what's the trouble?"
"It's the Suffragettes, my lord. They demand to see your lordship, and won't believe you're not at home. There's about twenty of them, my lord."
"A mere mistake in identity, Ponderby. Tell them the address of the Premier is No. 10, Downing Street. Turn them away firmly, but kindly."
​"They won't be turned away, my lord. The moment the footman opened the door, they rushed him; nearly knocked Spilkins over, my lord, and now they're all in the hall, except one, who stands outside the door, waving a banner inscribed 'Votes for Women.'"
This time Stranleigh did smile, in spite of himself, as he pictured the six-foot Spilkins, so cold and formal in manner, unexpectedly submerged at the door by an impetuous onrush.
"Ponderby, when you are captured, the only thing to do is to capitulate as gracefully as possible. Go to the hall, Ponderby, take a glance over the assembled women, and note the general tone of their costumes, then show them into whatever room best corresponds in colour and decoration with their own attire. Tell them I shall do my sell the honour of waiting upon them within five minutes. Ask Spilkins to lure away the bannered young lady from outside the door, then, when you have them all seated comfortably, report progress to me."
The score of ladies were in quite a flutter when they learned how easily victory had come to them, and there arose a murmur of admiration as the solemn Ponderby ushered them into one of the ​most beautiful drawing-rooms they had ever seen. The girl with the banner rolled it up hastily, as if somehow it was out of keeping in a salon displaying such perfect taste. When all were seated, the silent Ponderby withdrew, closing the door very gently behind him.
"I wonder," said the lady with the banner, "if we are trapped. This all seems too easy. I believe Lord Stranleigh has got us in here so that he can slip out unseen, for his motor-car drove up just as I came in. I should have remained on guard."
She rose impulsively from her chair, and gave a flirt to the banner that partially unrolled it.
"I'm off to intercept him," she said, but a very quiet old lady, with beautiful grey hair, spoke soothingly.
"Sit down, my dear. I know Lord Stranleigh. He would not do such a thing."
The girl, but half convinced, slowly re-seated herself. She was in a room where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile. She knew their sneaking ways. However, she made no audible protest, and her companions were all very quiet, as though rather awed by their surroundings, and the celerity with which their desire had been ​accomplished. The door opened, and the Earl of Stranleigh entered.
As he came in the door closed behind him without any visible motive power. His eye took in very quietly, yet without seeming to do so, the group awaiting him, and then lit up with pleasure as it recognised the thin, delicate old lady with grey hair who rose to greet him. His indolent manner fell from him like a discarded cloak. He came forward rapidly, bent over her proffered slender, white hand, and raised it to his lips with old-fashioned courtesy.
"We have rather stormed your citadel," she began.
"Dear madam, had you only let me know you were coming, you would have found my door wide open for your reception, yet you come so splendidly chaperoned that I fear this may be a business visit, and not a friendly call."
"I hope you will regard it as both."
"I cannot be so impartial, madam, and am certain to incline towards the friendliness, for, after all, I am but a poor business man."
"You are quite alone in that opinion, my lord. Indeed, we are here because of your latest coup in business, and so that we may not take you more ​by surprise than already has been the case, I warn you to prepare for an unanimous vote of censure."
"Dear lady," laughed Stranleigh, "why use a threat when I am eager to obey your slightest request?"
The girl who had been on guard slipped the stick with its furled banner out of sight behind her chair. This meeting was too much like a scene from a society play: there was nothing militant about it.
"Pray be seated, madam," said Stranleigh, "and that will allow me to take this chair fronting you all. They say that when danger threatens the best plan is to face it, which accordingly I do. To what successful coup do you refer?"
Stranleigh took a chair near a table.
"The newspapers have printed column after column about it. Assisted by the weight of your money, that arch-rascal, Bannerdale, secured his second line to the Pacific, and 'froze out,' I think is their term, meaning ruined, a vast number of unfortunate men opposed to him."
"Yes," said Stranleigh, "I received many hundreds of letters on that subject, and talking of votes of censure, I've been censured by every reputable journal in England. The incident just proves ​what I have been saying to you, namely, that I'm no man of business at all, but merely a gullible simpleton."
"Why, how can that be, if it is true that you cleared nearly a million by the deal?"
"I certainly gained a sum of money, the amount of which I have not had time to enquire, but that was an unintentional side-issue. I made no protest against what the journals said, yet I should be sorry for you to misjudge me. My mind has recently turned towards the possibility of giving away money by some method which will do good instead of harm. At a health resort on the Continent I met a man who seemed poor and ill, and at his behest I made a railway investment through a Frankfort firm. The profits, if any, were to go to him, while the loss, if any, was borne by me. It turned out that the person calling himself Garner was in reality the multi-millionaire railway king, Bannerdale. He needed the use of my name, and secured it. He published a quite untrue statement that I was his partner, and thus was enabled to consummate the deal he had in hand. He never applied to me for a penny of the money I made on his behalf, and so, you see, instead of wearing the hoofs and horns presented to me by the Press, I was merely ​the victim of a man much shrewder than myself. I confess that the contumely heaped upon me has not caused me an hour's wakefulness, but if you ladies add a vote of censure, then shall I be indeed desolate."
Many of the delegation laughed, and it was evident his young lordship had nothing to fear from that quarter. The lady with grey hair now spoke, very gently and very charmingly:
"I am sure I express the sentiment of this Committee when I say we are all glad to know you invested in an American railway speculation solely to benefit a fellow-creature whom you supposed to be in distress. We came here hoping to show you a better use for your money than that to which you had devoted it."
"You mean, madam, that I should contribute to the cause of Woman's Suffrage?"
"Yes."
"That I am very pleased to do, and if you assist me by naming the amount, I will send a cheque to your treasurer at once."
"On behalf of my fellow-workers, not only of those here, but of the thousands labouring elsewhere for our cause, I thank you for your great generosity. Our mission now being accomplished, I shall detain ​you no longer than it takes to tender our gratitude for your kind reception of us."
The young man was rather confused as he listened to these words, and the slight ripple of applause they called forth, but the tension of the situation was relieved by the young woman who carried the banner rising to her feet.
"I thought our chairwoman would, perhaps, embody those sentiments, with which we all agree, in a formal vote of thanks, and that in seconding this motion I should find opportunity for speaking on a subject very interesting to me. I gathered from the Earl of Stranleigh's remarks that he has given some thought towards the distribution of money to aid the down-trodden and the afflicted. If this is so, I should like to ask what success has followed his philanthropy?"
Stranleigh laughed a little, and tried to shake off his embarrassment.
"My efforts can hardly be dignified by such a term as philanthropy. It is a question that bristles with difficulties. When I give a sovereign to a sober ragamuffin, if I meet him again before the money is spent I regret to find he is then usually a drunk ragamuffin. In a larger way, where I depend on my own judgment, as was the case with ​the American I have spoken about, my effort has merely meant the discomfiture of people unknown to me that I would not willingly have injured. This is doubtless because I am rather a muddle-headed person, and a muddle-headed person with good intentions and plenty of money seems to be a distinct danger to the community. I try to inform myself of what wiser people have done, but my search has not proved encouraging.
"Through the genius of the late Sir Walter Besant a great people's palace was erected in the East End, which, I am told, has failed in its object on account of the abstention of those it was intended to benefit. That gracious lady whose memory is revered by us all, the late Baroness Burdett-Coutts, carried out what seemed a most practical project by building a huge market in the East End, where poor people might obtain good food at reasonable prices, but she merely disturbed, temporarily, the costermonger trade, and I think the great building, if not abandoned, is used for other purposes than the one for which it was erected. The poor, apparently, would have none of it.
"The other day, as I drove from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, I noticed along the road great iron pipes being ruined by rust, and learned from my dragoman ​that years before the Baroness had bestowed a very large sum of money for bringing the pure water of Solomon's Wells to Jerusalem, which has always depended for its supply on the rains, gathered into filthy tanks. The bulk of the money had been stolen by Turkish officials, and these broken, rusty pipes were the useless result of a most beneficent plan. So you understand my difficulty; I am quite willing to give, if assured the donations would accomplish any useful purpose."
"Don't you think," replied the young woman, "that these failures are due to the indolence and ignorance of the giver? The man with money, unless he has made it himself, is indolent, and therefore, to gain information, does not take the trouble a business person would expend before making an investment."
"Doubtless, madam, that is very true in my own case, for I am both indolent and ignorant. Money seems as dangerous to meddle with as dynamite. I read in the bankruptcy proceedings, the other day, of a young and industrious mechanic earning good wages, whose uncle in Australia left him sixteen thousand pounds. That sum lasted him a year, or nearly so, and when it was spent he got amazingly into debt, and now is adjudged a bankrupt, with ​no chance of his creditors receiving a penny. A year ago he was a useful and estimable citizen; to-day he is a vicious loafer, a human derelict."
"That may be an exceptional case," said the confident one.
"Perhaps. Have you any suggestion to make?"
"It seems to me, in the instances you cited, that neither the Baroness nor Sir Walter took the trouble to find out what the poor really wanted or needed. They bestowed upon them, therefore, something they did not require. Now, I think a man with time at his disposal should examine the matter, as I may say, from the ground up. He might take an individual, study him, discover what was really needed, and supply the deficiency."
"Madam, you describe exactly what I did in the case of Mr. Bannerdale, alias Garner, yet see how narrowly I missed a vote of censure from you for that very action."
"My lord, have you ever seen the play, written by one of us, entitled 'Diana of Dobson's'?"
"I have not enjoyed that advantage."
"It deals very cleverly with the subject we are discussing."
Very well; I shall secure a box at once."
​Before the banner girl could say anything further, the lady with grey hair rose.
"I think," she said, smiling, "that the Earl of Stranleigh has earned the formal vote of thanks you suggested, and so, taking it as proposed and seconded, I beg to tender it, and bid him farewell."
Saying this, she marshalled her following, and departed.
When Lord Stranleigh left Kingsway Theatre he was thinking less of the employment problem in the play than about its acting. The American actress, Miss Lena Ashwell, had been superb, and Norman McKinnel, whom he considered Britain's greatest tragedian, caused him to wonder why McKinnel, having the production of the piece in his own hands, had chosen for himself the humble rôle of policeman, appearing only for five minutes or thereabouts in the darkened picture of the last act, which represented the outcasts dozing on the benches of the Thames Embankment.
Stranleigh walked down Kingsway to the Strand, entered the Gaiety Restaurant, and treated himself to a well-chosen supper. When he emerged, remembering the last scene of the play, he strolled down Arundel Street to the Thames Embankment, intended ​to be London's chief boulevard, although this thoroughfare, bordered by great luxurious hotels, becomes after nightfall an out-door bedroom for the penniless; millionaire and pauper sleeping within a stone's throw of one another. However well the Thames Embankment may compare with a Parisian boulevard during the day, all the brightness of the latter is absent at night, for here no cafés and restaurants face the river.
Stranleigh's first impression was how well the actual benches of the Embankment imitated their counterfeit on the stage. Even the slow policeman that passed him walked with McKinnel's measured step. The young nobleman aroused the first sleeper, asked a few questions, and receiving replies that he didn't in the least believe, presented the derelict with a sovereign, telling him to get something to eat, and a more comfortable bed. This was repeated again and again, and monotonous iteration indicated that no denizen of the Embankment was there through any fault of his own.
Stranleigh knew that many a man who later became famous spent his first night in London on the Embankment, and he hoped that by chance he might succour some genius, yet he fancied in such case his benefaction would not have been so greedily ​accepted as it was by these outcasts. He yearned for someone to tell him to go to the devil and leave the slumberer to his rest, but he met no such cheering indication of independence combined with dire necessity.
The slow policeman, marching by the parapet, paused and watched him with some suspicion in his attitude. Finally the officer spoke.
"Rather a dangerous business, sir."
"I know it is," said Stranleigh, coming alongside. "I don't believe in indiscriminate charity, but these poor wretches are so far down in the social scale that perhaps a little unexpected money will do them no harm."
"That wasn't quite what I meant, sir," said the policeman, who seemed disappointed to find Stranleigh was not intoxicated, as he had evidently surmised. "Some one you've given money to has already passed on the word, and if you're not careful you may find yourself waylaid and robbed. Better let me whistle a cab for you, sir."
Stranleigh laughed.
"I'm not afraid, officer, but I daresay you know the crowd a great deal better than I do. I gave a sovereign to each of those who have since vanished. I hoped I might learn something, but I find I haven't, ​so if you don't mind, I'll make you my proxy charity commissioner."
The young man gave the astonished constable a handful of gold, and said:
"You take your percentage out of that, and distribute the rest among those who need it most."
"With your permission, sir," said the policeman, "I'll change all this into silver to-morrow, and divide it to-morrow night. I suppose you don't know that these people would have some difficulty in getting honest change for a gold piece. None of them could convince anybody they came fairly by it."
"I hadn't thought of that. I'm rather a bungler, you see."
"Well, sir, begging your pardon, you don't seem very wise."
"You've hit the nail on the head, officer. Good-night to you."
"Better have a cab, sir. You may get your own head hit before you leave the Embankment."
"My skull is too thick to be injured by any of these weaklings. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
The policeman stood watching as Stranleigh walked ​rapidly toward Westminster, then he poured the gold into his pocket.
All those whom Stranleigh had aroused that night showed the cringing disposition of the very poor. They seemed anxious about one thing only, which was to say whatever might please the man who accosted them, in the hope of obtaining a sixpence or a few coppers at the end of the discourse. They represented merely human débris, and even the optimistic Stranleigh realised that they were of no use either to humanity or themselves. The money he gave them would be spent, and afterwards they would sink into the same condition in which he found them. He drew a deep sigh of disappointment at the result of his experiment.
He was nearing Westminster Bridge when he noticed some distance ahead a man whose arms rested on the top of the river wall, the one person, except the policeman, he had seen that night ignoring the meagre comfort of the benches. As he neared this person Stranleigh stopped, and himself leaned against the parapet, just under the ornamental lamp-post that rose from the wall. Stranleigh himself was in comparative obscurity, but the lamp shone full on the intellectual face of the stranger. It was a pathetic countenance, indicating great ​refinement, but the stamp of starvation was visible on the pallid features. It reminded him of one of the six pictures drawn by the late Fred Barnard to illustrate Dickens; the picture of Sidney Carton about to mount the scaffold, and looking back over his shoulder with the same wistful expression which was now before him in life.
Stranleigh remembered Fred Barnard with a pang of regret. One night, when they were dining together, Barnard had told him the history of the picture; how he searched in vain through London and Paris for any man whose face would realise his own dream of Sidney Carton. Then one night, under a lamp-post in Paris, he caught a momentary glimpse of the person who fulfilled his requirements, with refined features softened by the grief of a saviour, but the face was that of a woman, and he finished his well-known picture by placing a woman's head on a man's body.
Here, then, at last, was a fitting subject for any beneficence the young nobleman cared to bestow. Despite his evident hunger, the stranger appeared lost in some ecstatic dream, and he did not hear Stranleigh approach, but started when the latter accosted him, awakening from his reverie as if he knew not where he was.
​"You pursue your meditations at a late hour, sir, and in an unaccustomed place."
After a moment the stranger replied:
"Ya ne govoriù po Anglisky."
"Ah! you are a Russian, and do not speak English," commented Stranleigh, using somewhat haltingly the other's language. "I possess one or two good friends in Russia, but confess that my attempts to converse in their tongue meet respectful sympathy, rather than commendation."
The stranger smiled, and his visionary eyes glistened with delight at even this attempt at his own speech.
"Do you understand French?" asked Stranleigh. It appeared that the stranger did, and their future communication took place in that language, which the Russian spoke exceedingly well.
"As I told you," Stranleigh went on, "I have several friends in Russia, of whom I am very fond, and for their sakes I proffer my assistance if you happen to need it."
"You are most kind," replied the Russian, "and it is true, as doubtless you have surmised, that I am in dire straits. I have had nothing to eat for nearly forty-eight hours."
"That is a state of things permitting no delay ​in the amending. Blessed is he who has nothing, for he need fear no trap. Will you come with me to my house, since all the restaurants of London are closed?"
They walked together to Westminster Bridge, where a friendly policeman whistled for a wandering cab, and then looked with some astonishment at the strangely-assorted pair. A hansom came flying across the bridge in response to the call. The richest man and the poorest in Europe got in together, and drove to Stranleigh House, where his lordship found an excellent supper laid awaiting his return.
"Champagne?" asked Stranleigh.
The Russian hesitated.
"I suppose," he said at last, "you keep no vodka?"
"As it happens," answered Stranleigh with a laugh, "I have just stocked a quantity of it; the best that can be found. My chief Russian friend is to visit me next week."
"I will take a little vodka, then," replied his guest, "since I have fallen into fortunate circumstances. I am sorry to be of such trouble, but the sudden change from hope to realisation has shown me how physically weak I am."
His fine white hand trembled as he raised the ​raw vodka to his lips, refusing to have its potency mitigated by water.
"Ah!" he sighed, setting down the glass again, "that assures me I am still in the land of the living. I must now eat very sparingly."
They sat down together, the visitor diluting his vodka with water, still refusing champagne. After the meal Stranleigh pushed over to him a box of Russian cigarettes, then took one himself.
"Will you tell me all about it now," he said, "or shall we wait till morning?"
The Russian did not answer on the moment, which hesitation appeared to be a habit of his, but gazed about as if marvelling at the luxury in which he found himself. As the aromatic smoke of the cigarette rose in the air he heaved a deep sigh of contentment.
"Does that mean, sir, that you offer a complete stranger the further hospitality of a bed? You hint I am to be here in the morning."
"Morning is so close upon us that it would not be worth your while searching for a lodging at this hour. Indeed, a stranger with no English might meet difficulty in obtaining a resting-place, and, besides, you could find nothing in London so comfortable as it is my privilege to offer."
​"Sir, I hesitate to trespass——"
"It is no trespass, monsieur. This is a bachelor establishment, and I consult no one's convenience but my own, or that of my guest, and I assure you of an English welcome, recalling to your mind that our countries are friendly."
"Gospodín, if you allow me to sleep here on the sofa, it will be as heaven compared with the place where you found me."
Stranleigh laughed.
"In one at least of your Easterly religions there are seven heavens, and I prefer to send you to the seventh rather than the first. And now let us introduce ourselves. My name is Stranleigh."
"I am Vassili Nicolaievna. Until recently I was a student at the University of St. Petersburg."
"Did you fake a literary course there? I have guessed you to be a poet. Am I right or wrong?"
"Both, Gospodín Stranleigh. I dream poetry, but cannot express it in words. Still, I try to give expression to my dreams through these." He stretched out his hands; white, slight, but nevertheless powerful. "I have devoted my life to music, and so did not finish the course at the University. May I give you a song for my supper?"
He waved a hand towards the very splendid ​grand piano which stood at the end of the dining-room, ready, when Stranleigh gave a bachelor dinner, for the entertainment of his guests.
"I should be delighted," said his lordship.
The Russian opened the instrument, and sat down, plunging into a weird, fantastic, rather terrible selection that Stranleigh had never heard before. Then, after a moment's pause, he made the piano sing like a nightingale.
"Heaven prosper us!" ejaculated Stranleigh, when he rose, "I have never before heard that piano. You possess all the power of Rubinstein and all the delicacy of Paderewski. Who wrote that music?"
"Mine, mine, mine!" cried Nicolaievna. "Rubinstein was a Russian, and Paderewski is a Pole, but in music both belong to the past. 'Tis not up their stairway I am climbing. Wagner is the first step in my ascent, then Strauss, with his 'Elektra'; by and by it will be Vassili Nicolaievna. I came to London to play my soul-stirring symphony of humanity; a composition to echo round the world. I expected help from my musical brethren, but such is the jealousy in the ranks of those who should most appreciate me that they turned the cold shoulder. They declare I am not to be heard, and without money I am powerless."
​"I should have thought," said Stranleigh, "that any true musician would welcome you with open arms."
"It is not so!" exclaimed Vassili. "They are all comfortably situated here, and why should I come to disturb their slumbers? Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! Each knows in his heart that I tower above him as the peak of the Kremlin looks down upon the lowest hovel in Petersburg."
Stranleigh could scarcely repress a smile at the colossal conceit of the man, but nevertheless, from his playing and his composition, he deemed it justifiable, and attributed its blatant expression to the influence of vodka. The Russian's arms were gesticulating like those of a Sicilian actor, as he continued:
"My great symphony of humanity, could I but be allowed to render it here in London, will concentrate upon me the attention of the universe. The echoes of its harmonies and its discords will ring down the ages, and yet am I nullified for the lack of a hundred roubles."
"No; you are not," said Stranleigh. "You wish to collect a critical audience here in London, and perform before it?"
"Yes," answered the Russian.
​"Very well, I will finance you. Not with a hundred roubles, but ten thousand, if you desire them, and the money is at your disposal to-morrow morning."
Greatly to Stranleigh's embarrassment the mad musician flung himself at his lordship's feet, seized a reluctant hand, and covered it with kisses.
"Tut-tut!" cried Stranleigh, with an uneasy laugh. "We are not rehearsing a sentimental play, you know. You are overwrought, and so, for that matter, am I. I consider you the greatest genius I have ever met, and your music will haunt me while I live. Have no fear that you will languish for lack of opportunity, but meantime let us to bed, for there is strenuous work to do in the morning."
"Work to do! Work to do! Yes; and I must keep my head cool and my hands steady."
He held out these capable instruments of his will, and Stranleigh touched the bell.
On the day that the luncheon to Prince Azov was given at the Guildhall, one of those imposing processions in which Londoners delight set out from the Russian Embassy in Belgrave Square, proceeded up Grosvenor Square to Hyde Park, then down Piccadilly to St. James's Street, and so through Pall Mall, the Strand, and Fleet Street, to the City. ​There were several carriages, preceded and followed by a clanking company of horsemen, whose breast-plates glittered in the sun, and whose gay uniforms added a touch of colour to the drab streets through which they passed.
The foremost carriage contained the Russian Ambassador, accompanied by several high nobles of that empire. In the next carriage sat only two persons: Prince Azov, the honoured guest of the day, and by his side his most familiar English friend, the Earl of Stranleigh.
The streets on either side were lined with troops, and behind them was massed a very good-natured crowd, who vociferously cheered the spectacle. Along Piccadilly, down St. James's Street, and to the further end of Pall Mall the clubs were resplendent with bunting and decorations, and in the Strand, Venetian masts had been set up. All London seemingly was enjoying a holiday, turning out to honour the White Czar's representative. Everywhere the procession was welcomed by hurrahs and gladsome greeting, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, and indeed, the young Prince, who smilingly acknowledged the enthusiasm, was a magnificent specimen of manhood, clad in Oriental splendour, and well worth coming out to see.
​As they passed into the Strand, his Highness said: "You are a fortunate people, Stranleigh. I should feel rather nervous if taking part in a similar display through the streets of Petersburg."
"Oh, you are quite safe here!" replied his lordship. "Rightly or wrongly, we are so tender with the denizens of the under-world, that they will not risk their own safety——"
Stranleigh sprang suddenly to his feet, and stood covering the Prince with his body.
"Seize that man!" he shouted, in a voice that rang out above the cheers, so startling was its note.
To Stranleigh the whole mob had but one face; the pallid, ecstatic countenance of the mad musician. His right hand was raised above his head, grasping a black iron ball, and there for one brief section of a moment it paused as the amazed Nihilist caught sight of his benefactor, but before a policeman could move, a spasm of determination swept all reluctance from that wonderful face, and he launched his bomb straight at the carriage.
Stranleigh in his time had been a notable cricketer, saving many a hard-fought field for his public school and college, and more than one person in that day's crowd, not yet realising what had happened, noted with admiration how the young man quite ​unconsciously assumed the attitude of a fielder, and deftly caught the missile, allowing it to swing gently to rest past his body.
Now the policeman grasped the Nihilist, who struggled fiercely for a moment, and then grew suddenly calm. The procession had stopped. The crowd was silent. An officer of the force came out from a restaurant, carrying a pail of water, and as he held this up to Stranleigh, the latter very gingerly placed within it the deadly sphere. The anarchist, as he was led away, shouted loudly:
"Khoroshó proshtcháité, Gospodin. Skólko platít?"
"What does he say?" whispered Stranleigh, as he sat down again beside the imperturbable Prince who, during this time, had not changed countenance or moved a muscle.
"His Russian is rather incoherent. I fear the man is excited. He appears to address you, saying it's all very well, bids you good-bye, and asserts he will pay the price, or perhaps rather asks what it will cost, an enquiry that is a trifle belated. Poor chap! We are both rather helpless; he in his place, I in mine."
"He is a man of genius," said Stranleigh, "towering genius, who threw away with that bomb a career of the greatest."