The Just Men of Cordova

The man who sat at the marble-topped table of the Café of the Great Captain⁠—if I translate the sign aright⁠—was a man of leisure. A tall man, with a trim beard and grave grey eyes that searched the street absently as though not quite certain of his quest. He sipped a coffee con leche and drummed a little tune on the table with his slender white hands.

He was dressed in black, which is the conventional garb in Spain, and his black cloak was lined with velvet. His cravat was of black satin, and his well-fitting trousers were strapped under his pointed boots, in the manner affected by certain caballero.

These features of his attire were the most striking, though he was dressed conventionally enough⁠—for Cordova. He might have been a Spaniard, for grey eyes are a legacy of the Army of Occupation, and many were the unions between Wellington’s rollicking Irishmen and the susceptible ladies of the Estremadura.

His speech was flawless. He spoke with the lisp of Andalusia, clipping his words as do the folk of the South. Also, there was evidence of his Southern origin in his response to the whining beggar that shuffled painfully to him, holding out crooked fingers for largess.

“In the name of the Virgin, and the Saints, and the God who is above all, I beseech you, señor, to spare me ten centimos.”

The bearded man brought his farseeing eyes to focus on the palm.

“Mr. de la Monte,” said the doctor, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and speaking very deliberately, “you have some knowledge of crime.”

“I have written a book on the subject,” said Manfred, “which is not necessarily the same thing.”

“I had that fear,” said the other bluntly. “I was also afraid that you might not speak English. Now I want to ask you a plain question and I want a plain answer.”

“So far as I can give you this, I shall be most willing,” said Manfred.

The doctor twisted his face nervously, then⁠—“Have you ever heard of the ‘Four Just Men’?” he asked.

There was a little silence.

“Yes,” said Manfred calmly, “I have heard of them.”

“Are they in Spain?”

The question was put sharply.

“I have no exact knowledge,” said Manfred. “Why do you ask?”

“Because⁠—” The doctor hesitated. “Oh, well⁠—I am interested. It is said that they unearth villainy that the law does not punish; they⁠—they kill⁠—eh?” His voice was sharper, his eyelids narrowed till he peered from one to the other through slits.

“Such an organization is known to exist,” said Manfred, “and one knows that they do happen upon unpunished crime⁠—and punish.”

“Even to⁠—to killing?”

“They even kill,” said Manfred gravely.

“And they go free!”⁠—the doctor leapt to his feet with a snarl and flung out his hands in protest⁠—“they go free! All the laws of all nations cannot trap them! A self-appointed tribunal⁠—who are they to judge and condemn? Who gave them the right to sit in judgment? There is a law, if a man cheats it⁠—”

He checked himself suddenly, shook his shoulders and sank heavily into the chair again.

He found the light at last, and then he stepped back with a cry of horror.

Well he might, for four strangers sat at the board⁠—four masked men.

The door leading into the boardroom was a wide one. The three men with their prisoner stood grouped in the centre, petrified into immobility.

The four who sat at the table uttered no sound.

Black was the first to recover his self-possession. He started forward, then stopped. His face worked, his mouth opened, but he could frame no words.

“What⁠—what?” he gasped.

The masked man who sat at the head of the table turned his bright eyes upon the proprietor of the establishment.

“You did not expect me, Mr. Olloroff?” he said bluntly.

“My name is Black,” said the other violently. “What are you doing here?”

“That you shall discover,” said the masked man. “There are seats.”

Then Black saw that seats had been arranged at the farther end of the table.

“First of all,” the masked man went on, “I will relieve you of your prisoner. You take those handcuffs off, Sparks.”

The man fumbled in his pocket for the key, but not in his waistcoat pocket⁠—his hand went farther down.

“Keep your hand up,” said the man at the table, sharply. He made a little gesture with his hand, and Black’s servant saw the gleam of a pistol.

“You need have no fear,” he went on, “our little business will have no tragic sequence tonight⁠—tonight!” he repeated significantly. “You have had three warnings from us, and we have come to deliver the last in person.”

She started and took a step back.

“I shall arrest you,” he went on determinedly. “I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. I will trump up any charge against you. I will take you to the station, through the streets, and put you in the iron dock as though you were a common thief. I’ll do it because I love you,” he said passionately, “because you are the biggest thing in the world to me⁠—because I love you better than life, better than you can love yourself, better than any man could love you. And do you know why I will take you to the police-station?” he went on earnestly. “Because you will be safe there, and the women who look after you will allow no dog like this fellow to have communication with you⁠—because he dare not follow you there, whatever else he dare. As for him⁠—”

He turned savagely about as a resplendent Black entered the room. Black stopped at the sight of the other’s face and dropped his hand to his pocket.

“You look out for me,” said Frank, and Black’s face blanched.

The girl had recovered her speech.

“How dare you⁠—how dare you!” she whispered. “You tell me that you will arrest me. How dare you! And you say you love me!” she said scornfully.

He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, quietly enough. “I love you. I love you enough to make you hate me. Can I love you any more than that?”