by Robert Reed
collection of chairs, commandeered from the neighbouring village .
A man in a tall hat and a fur coat was pacing up and down as Sir
Ralph came up . He turned and raised his hat .
“Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery,” he said, formally, “I am commis-
sioned by His Majesty’s Government to hand you a copy of the Act
which was passed last night by the House of Commons and which
has received the Assent in the early hours of this morning .”
He handed the document to Sir Ralph, who took it with a little
bow .
“You will find yourself specified here as the Commissioner to
execute the provisions of this Act .”
Sir Ralph opened the envelope and took out four closely-printed
sheets of paper .
They bore the inscription—“The Preservation of Law Act .”
He read the preamble . It was an Act which had been called into
existence by the danger which threatened England . He came to that
part which defined the Commissioner’s duties, and mastered it.
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 418
Then he stood up by the table, and four men took their places, two
on either side .
Sir Ralph removed his hat, and faced the gloomy house .
He read from the document in his hand, and his voice was a little
shrill and shaky .
Frank Gallinford, standing a little apart with Tillizini, watched
the extraordinary scene with breathless interest . The sense of the
tragedy of that moment oppressed him .
He heard the knight’s voice quiver as he read the short sentence:—
“…Whereas I, Ralph Morte-Mannery, His Majesty’s Commis-
sioner, by this Act appointed, declare all those persons who at pres-
ent inhabit and sojourn in the place known as Falley’s Wharf, in the
county of Essex, are persons without benefit of Law, and whereas I
declare them to be guilty of a crime, which by this Act is specified as
deserving of the punishment of death, now I, by virtue of the power
and authority vested in me do pass upon them all, jointly and sever-
ally, the sentence which the Law demands, that they shall be shot
until they are dead, and their bodies shall afterwards be burnt .…”
His voice broke a little. When he had finished reading they saw
his lips moving as if in prayer .
Then from the house came the first challenge of the “Red Hand.”
There was a distant “click-clock,” and Sir Ralph pitched forward
over the table—dead .
Festini had seen the ceremony, and guessed its import . He was an
excellent marksman .…
For twenty-five minutes the fight raged. The Infantry, by short
rushes occupying every scrap of cover which the flat plain offered,
opened a vigorous fire upon the shed.
Three minutes after the infantry attack had begun the 73rd Bat-
tery of the Field Artillery came into action . And simultaneously the
destroyers began dropping their tiny shells into the doomed house .
But the “Red Hand” died hard . Shot after shot came from the
building. The hut was in flames—part of the house itself was shot
away, exposing its bare interior .
Then Frank gripped Tillizini’s arm .
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 419
“My God!” he said . “Look!”
On the roof-top two figures had suddenly appeared—a man and
a woman . The man stood calmly regarding the destructive host that
was advancing before him . The woman, Frank saw through his
glasses, had her hand upon his shoulder .
Frank reeled back .
“It’s Vera!” he gasped .
Tillizini nodded .
“So it seems,” he said . “She is a greater woman than I thought .”
That was his only comment .
They stood there—a mark for all—but the presence of the woman
brought the rifles of the advancing soldiers down. Unscathed they
stood. They saw Festini’s hand go up in defiance. Then he suddenly
tumbled and swayed .
The woman sprang to his side and caught him, holding him close
to her breast .
What was plain to be seen by the land force was hidden from the
men on the torpedo boats .
Suddenly—right above her head—a shrapnel shell burst—and
the two, clasped in one another’s arms, sank out of sight as the roof
of the burning building collapsed .
Frank turned to Tillizini . The man’s face was whiter than usual,
and his eyes were wide open, staring .
The Englishman could not speak; he wiped his streaming brow
with a handkerchief, and his hand was trembling .
“England owes you something, Professor Tillizini,” said Frank,
aghast, looking with wonder at the silent figure.
Tillizini made no reply .
When, later in the day, weary and ill-looking, he presented him-
self at the Premier’s house and received the congratulations which
the Minister felt were his due, he was more inclined to appraise the
part he had played .
“The detection of this gang,” said the Premier warmly, “and the
destruction of the most dangerous man in Europe, is due entirely to
you, Signor Tillizini . You have frustrated him at every turn . It might
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 420
almost seem,” he smiled, “that you were inside his mind and knew
what he would do next .”
“That is very likely,” said Tillizini, absently . “I knew Festini
well, and his methods extremely well . I know something of his boy-
hood—something of his parents—the conditions of his life .
“Old Count Festini had two sons; the elder, for some reason or
other, he hated, the younger he petted and spoiled . Count Festini had
always been a leader in this type of organization . It is said that he
had pursued a vendetta for two hundred years . The old man had put
a period to it by destroying the last of the opposition factors .
“It is not the fault of the man who died to-day,” he said slowly,
“that he was what he was . He was reared and trained to the work—
was a ready and willing tool for the ‘Red Hand,’ until by his very
genius he became their master .”
“What happened to the elder brother?” asked the Premier curi-
ously .
“I am the elder brother,” said Tillizini, and he smiled, a little
crookedly .
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 421
THE GERM GROWERS,
by Robert Potter
Originally published in 1892.
PRELIMINARY
When I first heard the name of Kimberley1 it did not remind me
of the strange things which I have here to record, and which I had
witnessed somewhere in its neighbourhood years before . But one
day, in the end of last summer, I overheard a conversation about its
geography which led me to recognise it as a place that I had former-
ly visited under very extraordinary circumstances . The recognition
was in this wise . Jack Wilbraham and I were spending a little while
at a hotel in Gippsland, partly on a tour of pleasure and partly, so at
least we persuaded ourselves, on business . The fact was, however
,
that for some days past, the business had quite retreated into the
background, or, to speak more correctly, we had left it behind at
Bairnsdale, and had come in search of pleasure a little farther south .
It was delicious weather, warm enough for light silk coats in the
daytime, and cold enough for two pairs of blankets at night . We
had riding and sea-bathing to our hearts’ content, and even a rough
kind of yachting and fishing. The ocean was before us—we heard
its thunder night and day; and the lakes were behind us, stretching
away to the promontory which the Mitchell cuts in two, and thence
to the mouth of the Latrobe, which is the highway to Sale . Three
times a week a coach passed our door, bound for the Snowy River
and the more savage regions beyond . Any day for a few shillings
we could be driven to Lake Tyers, to spend a day amidst scenery
1
In North-west Australia .
THE GERM GROWERS, by Robert Potter | 422
almost comparable with the incomparable Hawkesbury . Last of all,
if we grew tired of the bell-birds and the gum-trees and the roar of
the ocean, we were within a day’s journey of Melbourne by lake and
river and rail .
It was our custom to be out all day, but home early and early to
bed . We used to take our meals in a low long room which was well
aired but poorly lighted, whether by day or night . And here, when
tea was over and the womenkind had retired, we smoked, whenever,
as often happened, the evening was cold enough to make a shelter
desirable; smoked and chatted . There was light enough to see the
smoke of your pipe and the faces of those near you; but if you were
listening to the chatter of a group in the other end of the room the
faces of the speakers were so indistinct as often to give a startling
challenge to your imagination if you had one, and if it was accus-
tomed to take the bit in its teeth . I sometimes caught myself partly
listening to a story-teller in the other end of the room and partly
fashioning a face out of his dimly seen features, which quite belied
the honest fellow’s real countenance when the flash of a pipelight or
a shifted lamp revealed it more fully .
Jack and I were more of listeners than talkers, and we were usu-
ally amongst the earliest who retired . But one evening there was a
good deal of talk about the new gold-field in the north-west, and a
keen-looking bushman who seemed to have just returned from the
place began to describe its whereabouts . Then I listened attentively,
and at one point in his talk, I started and looked over at Jack, and
I saw that he was already looking at me . I got up and left the room
without a sign to him, but I knew that he would follow me, and he
did . It was bright moonlight, and when we met outside we strolled
down to the beach together . It was a wide, long, and lonely beach,
lonely to the very last degree, and it was divided from the house by a
belt of scrub near a mile wide . We said not a word to one another till
we got quite near the sea . Then I turned round and looked Jack in the
face and said, “Why, man, it must have been quite near the place .”
“No,” said he, “it may have been fifty miles or more away, their
knowledge is loose, and their description looser, but it must be
THE GERM GROWERS, by Robert Potter | 423
somewhere in the neighbourhood, and I suppose they are sure to
find it.”
“I do not know,” said I; and after a pause I added, “Jack, it seems
to me they might pass all over the place and see nothing of what we
saw .”
“God knows,” he muttered, and then he sat down on a hummock
of sand and I beside him . Then he said, “Why have you never told
the story, Bob?”
“Don’t you know why, Jack?” I answered . “They would lock me
up in a madhouse; there would be no one to corroborate me but you,
and if you did so you would be locked up along with me .”
“That might be,” said he, “if they believed you; but they would
not believe you, they would think you were simply romancing .”
“What would be the good of speaking then?” said I . Don’t speak,”
he repeated, “but write, litera scripta manet, you will be believed
sometime . But meanwhile you can take as your motto that verse
in Virgil about the gate of ivory, and that will save you from being
thought mad . You have a knack of the pen, Bob, you ought to try it .”
“Well,” said I, “let it be a joint concern between you and me, and
I’ll do my best .”
Then we lit our pipes and walked home, and settled the matter in
a very few words on the way . I was to write, but all I should write
was to be read over to Jack, who should correct and supplement it
from his own memory . And no account of anything which was wit-
nessed by both of us was to stand finally unless it was fully vouched
or by the memory of both . Thus for any part of the narrative which
would concern one of us only that one should be alone responsible,
but for all of it in which we were both concerned here should be a
joint responsibility .
Out of this agreement comes the following history, and thus it
happens that it is told in the first person singular, although there are
two names on the title-page .
THE GERM GROWERS, by Robert Potter | 424
CHAPTER I
DISAPPEARANCES
Before I begin my story I must give you some account of certain
passages in my early life, which seem to have some connection with
the extraordinary facts that I am about to put on record .
To speak more precisely, of the connection of one of them with
those facts there can be no doubt at all, and of the connection of the
other with them I at least have none .
When I was quite a boy, scarce yet fifteen years old, I happened
to be living in a parish on the Welsh coast, which I will here call
Penruddock . There were some bold hills inland and some very wild
and rugged cliffs along the coast . But there was also a well-sheltered
beach and a little pier where some small fishing vessels often lay.
Penruddock was not yet reached by rail, but forty miles of a splendid
road, through very fine scenery, took you to a railway station. And
this journey was made by a well-appointed coach on five days of
every week .
The people of Penruddock were very full of a queer kind of gos-
sip, and were very superstitious . And I took the greatest interest in
their stories . I cannot say that I really believed them, or that they
affected me with any real fear . But I was not without that mingled
thrill of doubt and wonder which helps one to enjoy such things . I
had a double advantage in this way, for I could understand the Welsh
language, although I spoke it but little and with difficulty, and I often
found a startling family likeness between the stories which I heard
in the cottages of the peasantry three or four miles out of town and
those which circulated among the English-speaking people in whose
village I lived .
<
br /> There was one such story which was constantly reproduced un-
der various forms . Sometimes it was said to have happened in the
last generation; sometimes as far back as the civil wars, of which
strange to say, a lively traditional recollection still remained in the
neighbourhood; and sometimes it seemed to have been handed down
THE GERM GROWERS, by Robert Potter | 425
from prehistoric times, and was associated with tales of enchant-
ment and fairyland . In such stories the central event was always
the unaccountable disappearance of some person, and the character
of the person disappearing always presented certain unvarying fea-
tures . He was always bold and fascinating, and yet in some way
or other very repulsive. And when you tried to find out why, some
sort of inhumanity was always indicated, some unconscious lack of
sympathy which was revolting in a high degree or even monstrous .
The stories had one other feature in common, of which I will tell
you presently .
I seldom had any companions of my own age, and I was in con-
sequence more given to dreaming than was good for me . And I used
to marshal the heroes of these queer stories in my day-dreams-and
trace their likeness one to another . They were often so very unlike in
other points, and yet so strangely like in that one point . I remember
very well the first day that I thought I detected in a living man a re-
semblance to those dreadful heroes of my Welsh friend’s folk-lore .
There was a young fellow whom I knew, about five or six years
my senior, and so just growing into manhood . His name, let us say,
was James Redpath . He was well built, of middle height, and, as I
thought, at first at least, quite beautiful to look upon. And, indeed,
why I did not continue to think so is more than I can exactly say .
For he possessed very fine and striking features, and although not
very tall his presence was imposing . But nobody liked him . The
girls especially, although he was so good-looking, almost uniformly
shrank from him . But I must confess that he did not seem to care
much for their society .
I went about with him a good deal at one time on fishing and
shooting excursions and made myself useful to him, and except
that he was rather cruel to dogs and cats, and had a nasty habit of
frightening children, I do not know that I noticed anything particular