What she said was true--the Park was full of groans. From every
direction, borne to them by the gently rustling wind, came the groans
of countless suffering outcasts--legions of homeless, starving men
and women. Some lay right out in the open on their backs, others
under cover of the trees, others again on the seats. They lay
everywhere--these shattered, tattered, battered wrecks of
humanity--these gangrened exiles from society, to whom no one ever
spoke; whom no one ever looked at; whom no one would even own that
they had seen; whose lot in life not even a stray cat envied. Here
were two of them--a man and a woman tightly hugged in each other's
embrace--not for love--but for warmth. Lilian Rosenberg almost fell
over them, but they took no notice of her. Every now and then, one of
them would emerge from the shelter of the trees, and cross the grass
in the direction of the distant, gleaming water, with silent, stealthy
tread. Once a tall, gaunt figure, suddenly sprang up and confronted
the two adventurers; but the moment Kelson raised his stick, it
jabbered something wholly unintelligible, and sped away into the
darkness. "A scene like this makes one doubt the existence of a good God,"
Lilian Rosenberg said. "It makes one doubt the existence of anything but Hell," Kelson said. "Compared with all this suffering--the suffering of these thousands of
hungry, hopeless wretches--the bulk of whom are doubtless tortured
incessantly, with the pains of cancer and tuberculosis, to say nothing
of neuralgia and rheumatism--Dante's Inferno and Virgil's Hades pale
into insignificance. The devil is kind compared with God." "I believe you are right," Lilian Rosenberg said, "I never thought the
devil was half as bad as he was painted. The Park to-night gives the
lie direct to the ethics of all religions, and to the boasted efforts
of all governments, churches, chapels, hospitals, police, progress and
civilization. There is no misery, I am sure, to vie with it in any
pagan land, either now or at any other period in the world's history." "True," Kelson replied, "and why is it? It is because civilization has
killed charity. Giving--in its true sense--if it exists at all--is
rarely to be met with--giving in exchange--that is, in order to
gain--flourishes everywhere. People will subscribe for the erection of
monuments to kings and statesmen, or to well-known and, often,
richly-endowed charitable institutes, in exchange for the pleasure of
seeing, in the newspapers, a list of the subscribers' names, and
themselves included amongst those whom they consider a peg above them
socially; or in exchange for votes, or notoriety, they will give
liberally to the brutal strikers, or outings for poor." "I suppose, by the poor, you mean the pampered, ill-mannered and
detestably conceited County Council children," Lilian Rosenberg chimed
in. "I wouldn't give a farthing to such a miscalled charity, no--not
if I were rolling in riches." "And I think you would be right," Kelson replied. "But for these
really poor Park refugees it is a different matter. Obviously, no one
will make the slightest effort to work up the public interest on their
behalf, simply because they are labelled 'useless.' They belong
nowhere--they have no votes--they are too feeble to combine--they are
even too feeble to commit an atrocious murder; consequently, for the
help they would receive, they could give nothing in return. By the
bye, I doubt if they could muster between them a pair of suspenders--a
bootlace--a shirt-button, or even a--"

Lilian Rosenberg caught him by the arm. "Stop," she said, "that's
enough. Don't get too graphic. What's the matter with that tree?" They were now close beside the banks of the Serpentine; the moon had
broken through its covering of black clouds, and they perceived some
twenty yards ahead of them, a tall, isolated lime, that was rocking in
a most peculiar manner. [Illustration: THEY GAZED FASCINATED]




CHAPTER XXVII

THE RIGHT GIRL TO MARRY


Though the wind was nothing more than the usual night breeze of early
autumn, the lime-tree was swaying violently to and fro, as if under
the influence of a stupendous hurricane. Lilian Rosenberg and Kelson
were so fascinated that they stood and watched it in silence. At last
it left off swaying and became absolutely motionless. They then
noticed, for the first time, that there were three figures standing
under its branches, and that one of the figures was a policeman. "Hide quickly," Kelson whispered, "those two are Hamar and Curtis. Quick, for God's sake--or they will see you." Lilian Rosenberg hid behind an elm. "Hulloa!" Kelson called out, advancing to the group. "Why it's you, Matt!" Curtis cried. "Hamar said you would come!" "Said I would come! How the deuce did he know?" Kelson exclaimed. "I
didn't know myself till the moment before I started." "I willed you," Hamar explained; "as soon as I got back to my rooms
after the Show, a voice said in my ears--I heard it distinctly--'Be at
the Serpentine--the south bank--underneath a lime-tree--you will know
which--at twelve to-night.' I looked round--there was no one there. Naturally, concluding this was a message from the Unknown I hastened
off to Curtis, who was in his digs--and needless to say--eating, and
having dragged him away with me in a diabolical temper--I then sought
you. Where were you?" "Taking a walk. I felt I needed it." "Alone! Are you sure you weren't out with some girl." "I swear it." "It seems as if I'm not the only liar!" Lilian Rosenberg said to
herself in her place of concealment. "What would Shiel say to that?" "Humph! I don't know if I ought to believe you," Hamar remarked. "Did
you feel me willing you to come here?" "Rather!" Kelson said. "That is why I came. I seemed to hear your
voice say 'To Hyde Park--to Hyde Park--the Serpentine--the
Serpentine.'" Then sinking his voice he whispered, "What's up with the
policeman, he looks deuced queer?" "He's in a trance. We found him like this," Hamar said. "He is
undoubtedly under the control of the Unknown. I expect it to speak
through him every moment. Get ready to take down all he says. I've
come prepared," and he handed Kelson and Curtis, each, a pencil and a
reporter's notebook. He had hardly done so, when the policeman--a burly man well over six
feet in height, who was standing bolt upright as if at "attention," his
limbs absolutely rigid, his eyes wide open and expressionless--began
to speak in a soft, lisping voice that the trio at once identified
with the voice of the Unknown--the voice of the tree on that eventful
night in San Francisco. "The great secret of medicine--the secret of healing--will now be
revealed to you," the voice said. "Pay heed. In cases of tumours and
ulcers take a young seringa, lay it for half an hour over the stomach
of the afflicted person, then plant it with the mumia, _i.e._ either
the hair, blood, or spittle of the sick person, at midnight. As soon
as the seringa begins to rot, the ulcer will heal.