The Man Who Intervened

The room where Sergius Blake sat felt strange and cold. As he looked around, he could imagine a faint mist creeping in stealthily, like vapors rising from a sinister marsh. There seemed to be a cloud around the electric light in the ceiling, drifting in feathery, white flakes across the faces of the pictures on the walls. Even the familiar furniture loomed out dimly, with a gaunt and grotesque look, from shadows less real but more frightening than any living form.

Sergius stared around slowly, pressing his firm lips together. When he focused on any single object—a table, a sofa, a chair—the cloud faded, and the item stood out clearly. Yet always the rest of the room seemed to lie in mist and shadow. He knew this hazy atmosphere did not really exist, that it came from his mind. Still, it troubled him, adding a dull horror to his thoughts, which circled endlessly around one idea.

It was seven o'clock on an autumn night. Darkness covered London, and rain made a furtive music on roofs and pavements. Sergius listened to the drops on his windowpanes. They seemed to beckon him outside, to tell him it was time to trade thought for action. He had reached a firm and enormous decision. Now he had to carry it out.

He rose slowly from his chair, and as he moved, the mist seemed to gather itself and vanish, evaporating among the pictures and ornaments, the prayer rugs and divans. A clarity and insight came to him. He stood still by the piano, resting one hand on it lightly, and listened. The raindrops pattered close by, and beyond them rose the muffled hum of the evening traffic of New Bond Street, where he lived. As he stood there at attention, his young and handsome face looked carved in stone. His lips were set in a hard, straight line. His dark grey eyes stared like eyes in a photograph. The muscles of his long-fingered hands were tense and knotted. He was in evening dress and had planned to dine in Curzon Street, but he had dashed off a note saying he was ill and could not come. Another engagement was calling him—one he had made for himself.

A moment later, lifting his hand from the piano, he picked up a small leather case from a nearby table, opened it, and took out a revolver. He examined it carefully. Two chambers were loaded. That would be enough. He put on his long overcoat and slipped the revolver into his left breast pocket. There his heart could beat against it.

Each time his heart pulsed, Sergius seemed to hear the silence of another heart.

And now, though his mind was quite clear and the mists had gone, his familiar room looked odd to him. The very chair where he usually sat seemed like a stranger. Was the wallpaper really blue? He went up close and inspected it, then drew back and laughed softly, like a child. There was a carefree ring in his laugh. "What's the cab fare to Phillimore Place, Kensington?" he thought, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. "Half a crown?" He placed the coin carefully in the ticket pocket of his overcoat, buttoned the coat slowly, took his hat and stick, and drew on a pair of lavender gloves. Just then a new thought struck him, and he looked down at his hands.

"Lavender gloves for such a deed!" he murmured. For a moment he paused, wavering, and even partly unbuttoned them. But then he smiled and shook his head. Somehow the gloves would not seem entirely out of place. Sergius cast one last look around the room.

"When I stand here again," he said aloud, "I shall be a criminal—a criminal!"

He repeated the last word as if trying to grasp its meaning fully.

Then he opened the door quickly and went out onto the staircase.

Just as he was putting a hurried foot on the first step, a man in the street pressed his electric bell. Its thin, sharp ring made Sergius start and pause. In the half-darkness he waited, hands deep in his pockets, his silk hat tilted slightly over his eyes. The porter tramped along the hallway below. The front door opened, and a deep, strong voice asked, with anxious breathlessness: "Is Mr. Blake in?"

"I think he's gone out, sir."

"No—surely—how long ago?"

"I don't know, sir. He may be in. I'll see."

"Do—do—quickly. If he's in, say I must see him—Mr. Endover. But you know my name."

"Yes, sir."

The porter, coming up the stone stairs, suddenly found Sergius standing there like a stone figure.

"Lord, sir!" he burst out. "You gave me a start!" His voice was loud with surprise.

"Hush!" Sergius whispered. "Go down at once and say I've gone out!"

The man turned to obey, but Anthony Endover was already halfway up the stairs.

"It's all right," he called as he met the porter.

He passed him in an instant and reached Sergius.

"Sergius!" he cried, and there was a note of relief in his voice. "Hullo! Now, you're not going out."

"Yes, I am, Anthony."

"But I need to talk to you urgently. Where are you going?"

"To dine with the Venables in Curzon Street."

"I just met young Venables, and he said you'd written to say you were ill and couldn't come. He asked me to fill your place."

Sergius muttered a "Damn!" under his breath.

"Well, come in for a minute," he said, offering no excuse.

He turned and re-entered his flat, followed by Endover.

For several years, Endover had been Sergius Blake's close friend. They had left Eton together and studied at Oxford together. Their friendship, born on the playing fields, had grown beyond sports as their minds developed and the world of ideas opened up—like a holy of holies beyond the world of action. Both had passed behind that veil, but Anthony went further than Sergius. This slight separation did not weaken their bond; instead, it made Sergius admire his friend even more, mingling that admiration with respect. He looked up to Anthony. Seeing that his friend's mind was deeper than his own, while his own passions were far stronger, he came to rely on Anthony, sometimes seeking his advice and often following it. Anthony was his mentor and believed he instinctively understood all the workings of Sergius's mind and the possibilities of his nature.

Sergius's mother had been Russian and a great heiress; she died soon after he left Oxford. His father had died in an accident when Sergius was a child. So he was rich, free, and young in London, with no one to look after him—until Anthony Endover, who had meanwhile been ordained, became a curate at a fashionable West End church and moved into lodgings on George Street, Hanover Square.

Then, as Sergius laughingly said, he had a father confessor on hand. But tonight he had told his porter to lie in order to keep that father confessor away—and the lie had failed. Sergius led the way gloomily into his sitting room and switched on the light. Anthony walked to the fire and stretched his tall, athletic figure in its long black coat. His firm throat rose out of a clerical collar, but his thin, strongly marked face suggested an intellectual Hercules rather than a Mayfair parson. Neither his voice nor his manner had the usual clerical tone.

Still, he was an excellent curate, as his rector knew well.

For a moment he stood by the fire in silence while Sergius paced uneasily. Then Anthony turned.

"It's terribly wet," he said in a melodious, ringing voice. "The black dog is on me tonight, Sergius."

"Oh?"

"You don't really want to go out," Anthony went on, looking closely at his friend's strangely rigid face.

"Yes, I do."

"Not to Curzon Street. They've filled your place. I told Venables to ask Hugh Graham. I knew he was free tonight. Anyway, you're unwell."

Sergius frowned.

"I'm all right now," he said coldly, "and I particularly wanted to go. You needn't have been so eager to make up the numbers."

"Well, it's done now. And I can't say I'm sorry, because I want to talk with you. Say, Serge, take off those lavender gloves, take off your coat, let's order some dinner in and have a comfortable evening here. I've had a hard day, and I need a rest."

"I must go out soon."

"After dinner, then."

"Before ten o'clock."

"Say eleven."

"No—that's too late."

A brief but intense look of anxiety crossed Endover's face. Then, with a smile, he said, "All right. Shall I ring for dinner from Galton's?"

"If you like. I'm not hungry."

"I am."

Anthony called the servant and placed the order. Then he turned back to Sergius.

"Here, I'll help you off with your coat," he said.

But Sergius stepped back.

"No, thanks. I'll manage." He pointed to the mantelpiece. "There are cigarettes up there."

Anthony went to get one. As he took it, he glanced into the mirror over the fireplace and saw Sergius—while removing his overcoat—transfer something from it to the left breast pocket of his evening jacket.

Sergius still wanted to feel his heart beat against that small weapon, still wanted to hear, with each pulse, the silence—not yet present, but soon to be—of that other heart.

And as Anthony looked in the mirror, he told himself, "I was right."

He looked away and lit his cigarette. Sergius joined him.

"I'm feeling down tonight," Anthony said, puffing.

"Are you?"

"Yes—I've been in the East End. The misery there is terrible."

"It's just as bad in the West End, only different. You're burning your cigarette unevenly."

Anthony took it from his mouth and threw it into the grate. He struck a few matches but held them so clumsily they went out before he could light another cigarette. Finally, cursing his nerves that made his hasty movements contradict his calm face, he put the cigarette down.

"I think I'll wait until dinner," he said. "Ah, here it is.

And wine—champagne—that's good for you!"

"I won't drink. I hate drinking alone."

"You won't drink alone, then."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll drink with you."

"But you're a teetotaller."

"Not tonight."

Anthony spoke firmly. Sergius was amazed.

"What! You're going to break your vow? You, a clergyman!"

"Sometimes salvation lies in breaking a vow," Anthony replied as they sat down. "Have you never made a silent vow?"

Sergius met his eyes.

"Yes," he said, and his voice carried a hint of intensity. "But I won't—I wouldn't break it."

"I've seen a soul saved by breaking a vow," Anthony answered. "Pour me some champagne."

Sergius, wondering as much as his preoccupied mind would allow, filled his friend's glass. Anthony began to eat with a well-acted hunger. Sergius barely touched food but drank a good deal of wine. The hands of the large oak clock in the far corner crawled around their endless circle. Anthony's eyes kept drifting to the clock, then moving with swift, passionate attention to Sergius's face, which stayed strangely rigid, like a painted mask.

"I sat by a woman today," he said after a while. "Sat by her in an attic overlooking a narrow, rainy street, and watched her die."

"This morning?"

"Yes."

"And now she's been gone seven or eight hours. Lucky woman!"

"Ah, Sergius, but the terrible part was she wasn't ready to go, not in the least."

Sergius smiled suddenly—a stark, glaring smile—over the champagne he was raising to his lips.

"Yes, it's terrible for anyone to be thrust into the next world unprepared," he said. "It must be—terrible."

"And how can we know that anyone is fully prepared?"

Sergius's smile became a short laugh.

"It's easier to know who isn't than who is," he said.

Anthony's eyes went to the clock and came back.

"Death scared me today," he said. "It struck me that the most awful power God has given man is the power to set death, like a dog, on another man."

Sergius swallowed his wine in one gulp. He was no longer smiling. His hand went to his left side.

"It may be awful," he replied, "but it's grand. By heaven, it's magnificent."

He stood up, seemingly excited, and moved around the room while Anthony kept pretending to eat. After a minute or two, Sergius sat again.

"Power of any kind is a grand thing," he said.

"Only power for good."

"You're bound to say that—you're a clergyman."

"I say only what I truly feel. You know that, Serge."

"Ah, you don't understand."

Anthony looked at him with sudden, strong meaning.

"Part of a clergyman's duty—the most important part—is to understand those who aren't clergymen."

"You think you understand people?"

"Some people."

"Me, for instance?" The question came abruptly, defiantly.

Anthony seemed glad to answer.

"Yes, Sergius. I think I thoroughly understand you. Our deep friendship alone should make me."

Sergius's face softened a little, but he didn't agree.

"Maybe it blinds you," he said.

"I don't think so."

"Well, then, if you understand me—tell me—" Sergius stopped suddenly.

"This champagne is excellent," he said, refilling his glass.

"What were you going to say?" Anthony asked.

"I don't know—nothing."

Anthony tried to hide his disappointment. Sergius seemed about to drop the barrier between them. Once that barrier was crossed, Anthony felt his self-appointed mission might succeed and his gnawing worry ease. But again Sergius wrapped himself in a strange, cold reserve that was both violent and knowing. He left the table and sat close to the fire. From there he said over his shoulder, "No one ever truly understands another—really."

Anthony didn't answer at once. Sergius continued. "You, for instance, could never guess what I might do in certain situations."

"Such as—"

"Oh, a thousand things."

"I could make a good guess."

"No."

Anthony didn't argue but rose, walked over, and joined him by the fire, glass in hand.

"I might not let you know how much I guessed or knew."

Sergius laughed. "Oh, ignorance always hides behind mystery," he said.

"Knowledge doesn't need to go naked."

Their eyes met in the firelight, and over Sergius's face passed a new expression—wonder, but no unease. Anxiety was far from him that night. When a man is gripped by a passion strong enough to override all civilized caution and the inner voice of fear that we call prudence, another man's partial understanding or criticism cannot shake him. Sergius merely wondered for an instant if Anthony suspected what his heart was beating against. That was all.

As he wondered, the clock chimed the half hour after nine. Sergius heard it.

"I'll have to leave very soon," he said.

"You can't. Just listen to the rain."

"Rain! What does that matter?" A note of utter contempt crept into Sergius's voice.

"Ring for another bottle of champagne," Anthony replied. "This one's empty."

"Well—for a clergyman and teetotaller, I must say!" Sergius rang. A second bottle was opened, and the servant left, closing the door. As it shut, the wind howled against the windows, driving the rain.

"It'll be rough at sea tonight," Anthony remarked.

The comment seemed obvious, yet spoken oddly furtive and full of hidden meaning. Sergius noticed and asked, "Why? Who do you know that's going to sea tonight?"

Anthony was startled by the quick question and replied almost nervously, "No one in particular. Why should I?"

"I don't know why, but I think you do."

"People one knows cross the channel almost every night."

"Of course," Sergius said with indifference.

He glanced at the clock, and again his hand went, for a second, to his left breast. Anthony leaned forward and broke into speech, having seen both the look and the gesture.

"It's strange," he said, "how people leave our lives—how friends go, and enemies!"

"Enemies!"

"Yes. I sometimes wonder which departure is sadder. When a friend goes, perhaps gone forever is the chance to say 'I am your friend.' When an enemy goes—"

"Well, what then?"

"Perhaps gone forever is the chance to say 'I am not your enemy.'"

"Pshaw! Preacher's talk, Anthony."

"No, Sergius. Others forgive besides clergy, and others—including clergy—also miss their chances to forgive."

"You're fully English; I'm only half. There's something wild in my blood, and I say—damn forgiveness!"

"Yet you've forgiven."

"Whom?"

"Olga Mayne."

Sergius's face didn't change at the name, except perhaps to grow even more still, pale, and cold.

"Olga is punished," he said. "She's ruined."

"Her ruin might be repaired."

Sergius smiled quietly. "You think so?"

"Yes. Tell me, Sergius," Anthony spoke with strong earnestness, trying to keep his excitement in check, "you loved her?"

"Yes, I loved her—certainly."

"You'll always love her?"

"Since I'm not changeable, I suppose I will."

Anthony's thin, eager face brightened; a glow of warmth came into his eyes and cheeks.

"Then you would want her ruin repaired."

"Would I?"

"You must, if you love her."

"How could it be repaired?"

"Through her marriage with—Vernon."

Anthony's voice faltered before he said the last name, and his eyes burned with anxious hope. He watched Sergius as though expecting an explosion of emotion. The champagne—unusual for him since taking orders—added a wild edge to his intense feelings. He assumed his friend's inner turmoil must be even greater than his own. But he, who thought he understood, had no idea of the cold, icy fury in which Sergius lived, isolated by the sheer power of his emotion.

So he was astonished when Sergius replied with undiminished calm: "Oh, with Vernon—that charming man of fashion, whose very soul, they say, always wears lavender gloves? You think that would be a good thing?"

"Good? I don't say that. I say—as the world stands—it's the only thing. He caused her fall. He should marry her."

"And I?"

Anthony reached out to take his friend's hand, but Sergius picked up his champagne glass and avoided the gesture.

"You can be nothing to her now, Serge," Anthony said, his voice trembling with sympathy.

"You think so? I might be."

"What?"

"Not her husband, not her lover, not her friend."

"What, then?"

Sergius avoided the question. "You'd have her settle down with Vernon in Phillimore Place? Play the wife to his noble husband? Well, I know there's been some talk of that, as I mentioned yesterday."

The clock chimed ten. Anthony noticed that Sergius, despite his calm, paid no attention to the chime. This new topic had been Anthony's weapon, and he had used it desperately—perhaps not in vain.

"Yes, as you told me yesterday."

"And it seems right to you?"

"It seems the only option now."

"There are usually more possibilities than one in any situation."

Again Anthony was surprised. Sergius seemed to grow calmer as Anthony grew more agitated, and tonight he seemed strangely powerful, not just in mood but in intellect.

"For a woman, sometimes there is only one possibility if she is to be saved from disgrace, Serge."

"So you think Olga Mayne must become the wife of Vernon, who is a—"

"Coward. Yes."

At the word "coward," Sergius seemed startled from his calm. He looked at Anthony sharply.

"Why do you call him that?" he demanded. "I wasn't going to use that word."

Anthony was clearly flustered. "It came to me," he said quickly.

"Why?"

"Any man who drags a girl down is a coward."

"Ah—that's not what you meant," Sergius said.

Anthony stole a glance at the clock; its hand crept past ten-fifteen. "No, it wasn't," he admitted slowly.

Sergius rose and stood by the fire. He was clearly getting drawn into the conversation, which Anthony noted with relief.

"Anthony, I see you've come to know Vernon better since yesterday," Sergius went on. "Some new understanding of his nature."

"Perhaps."

"How did you get it?"

"Does that matter?"

"Have you heard something about him?"

"No."

"Then you've seen him. I say, you've seen him?"

Anthony hesitated. He pushed the champagne bottle toward Sergius, who was on the sofa near the fire.

"No. I don't want more. Why won't you answer me, Anthony?"

"I've always felt Vernon was a coward. His treatment of you proves it. He was—or seemed—your friend. He saw you deeply in love with—with Olga. He chose to ruin her after he knew of your love. Who but a coward could act so?"

A dark impatience came into Sergius's eyes. "You're mixing treachery with cowardice, and doing so dishonestly. You've seen Vernon."

Anthony paused, then said, "Yes, I have."

"By chance, of course. Why did you speak to him?"

"Because I thought I should."

Sergius was visibly disturbed. The deep emotional calm that had wrapped him all evening finally cracked; slight excitement and surface irritation stirred in him. Anthony felt an odd relief, for Sergius's restraint had weighed on him like a burden.

"I'm surprised you didn't cut him," Sergius said. "You're my friend, and he's—he's—"

"He's done you a terrible injury. I know that. I am your friend, Serge. I'd do anything for you."

"Yet you talk to that—devil."

"I spoke to him because I'm your friend."

Sergius sat down heavily, looking like a man who has been beaten and plans to return every blow with keen interest.

"You clergy are a puzzle to me," he said in a low, dull voice. "You and your charity, your kindness, your turning the other cheek. And your way of showing friendship—" His voice faded into something like a growl as he stared at the carpet. Between his eyes and the floor, the mist seemed to rise again, curling softly around him. He heard Anthony say: "Sergius, you don't realize how well I understand you."

The clock had passed ten-thirty. Anthony breathed easier; now he could speak plainly. He thought of a train racing through the night, covering the land between London and the moaning sea to the south. He imagined a ship sliding out of the dreary docks, lights gleaming, bells ringing, sailors shouting, and the great sigh of a coward who had escaped what he deserved. Then Sergius laughed.

"That again, Anthony!"

"Yes. I didn't meet Vernon by chance at all."

"What? You wrote to him? Arranged a meeting?"

"I went to his house in Phillimore Place."

Sergius said nothing. Strange furrows appeared in his young face, which was turning a dusky white. He sat completely still, listening.

"Do you hear, Sergius?"

"Go on—when?"

"Today. I decided to go after I saw you last night and after I watched that woman die—unprepared."

"What could she have to do with it?"

"A great deal. Almost everything."

Anthony rose, almost springing up, his face glowing with emotion and his throat tight.

"You don't know what it's like," he said hoarsely, "for someone with deep religious faith to watch a soul go out into darkness and punishment, perhaps never-ending punishment. It's abominable, unbearable. That woman will haunt me. Her despair will stay with me always. I couldn't add to that horror." He glanced at the clock, saw the time, and turned to Sergius with a sense of release. "I couldn't," he repeated, almost fiercely. "So I went to Vernon."

"Why?"

"Sergius—to warn him."

A dead silence fell; even the rain seemed to pause. Then Sergius spoke, his voice cold as winter water: "I don't understand."

"Because you won't accept how well I've come to know you—how I can read your soul."

"Mine too?"

"Yes. I've felt the awful blow you've suffered—losing Olga, her ruin—as if it were my own. We didn't talk much until yesterday. But from the way you spoke, the look in your eyes, what you said and didn't say, I guessed what was in your heart."

"You guessed all that?" Sergius stood against the mantelpiece, one arm stretched along it. His fingers opened and closed rhythmically around a small china figure, as if moved by some fierce, monotonous music.

"Yes, more—I knew it."

Sergius nodded. "I see."

Anthony touched his arm, almost with awe. "I knew then that you intended to kill Vernon. And—God forgive me—at first I was almost glad."

"Well—go on!"

Anthony shuddered at how calm and level Sergius's voice was. "I—I—" He stammered. "Serge, why do you look at me like that?"

Sergius looked away without a word.

"For I, too, hated Vernon—more for what he did to you than to Olga. But Sergius, after you left, through the night and into the dawn, I kept thinking about it. I couldn't escape the thought that you were about to commit a terrible crime. I didn't sleep. When morning came, I went to my district. There are criminals there, you know."

"I know."

"I looked at them with new eyes, and in their eyes I saw you—always you. And I asked myself: could I bear you becoming a criminal?"

"You said that?"

Sergius's fingers tightened on the china figure.

"Yes. I almost decided then to go to Vernon at once and tell him what I suspected—what I truly knew."

The clock struck eleven. Anthony heard it; Sergius did not.

"Then I went to sit with that wretched woman. I had already made up my mind about what to do. I had no thought yet for Vernon, only for you.

I didn't care whether he lived or died; I only wanted to save you, my friend, from murder. But when the woman died, I felt different. My resolve strengthened; I had to save not just you, but him too. He wasn't ready to die."

Anthony trembled with emotion. Sergius remained calm, still holding the china figure.

"So—so I went to him, Sergius."

"Yes."

"When I arrived, he had just received your letter, saying you forgave him, that you would come tonight after eight to tell him so personally and urge the marriage with Olga. After he read it—I explained it to him—I saw his true cowardice. His terror was abject, despicable. He implored my help, jumping at every sound."

"Tonight he'll sleep soundly, Anthony."

"Tonight he is gone. By morning he'll be at sea."

Sergius heard the wind again and finally understood Anthony's earlier remark about the sea.

Suddenly he moved, opening his fingers. The china figure crumbled into blue and white dust on the mantelpiece.

"No—it's too late, Sergius. He left at eleven."

Sergius stood motionless.

"You came tonight to keep me here until he was safe?"

"Yes."

"That's why you—" He stopped.

"That's why I came. That's why I broke my pledge. I thought wine—anything—to keep you from this crime. And Sergius, think: killing Vernon would never restore Olga's reputation. That too drove me to the right course, though I hardly realized it until now."

Sergius said, as if in answer: "So you've understood me!"

"Yes, Sergius. Friendship means something. Let's thank God—not just that he's safe, but that you are safe—and that Olga—"

"Hush! Has she gone with him?"

"She'll meet him. He's sworn to marry her."

Sergius's hand moved to his left breast. Anthony's gaze was fixed on him.

"Ah, yes, Sergius," Anthony cried. "Put that cursed thing away. Now it can never ruin your life or my peace."

Sergius slowly drew out the revolver. Again the mist rose around him, but now it was no longer white; it was scarlet.

A shot rang out. Anthony fell without a word, without a cry.

Then Sergius bent down and listened to the silence of his friend's heart—the long silence of the man who had intervened.