"That's the only thing we can do," said Ommaney. "No one else would be possible. The Archbishop would laugh. We must go to the real head. I want to put myself on the safe side before publishing. If they meet me, then for the next few days we can control public opinion. If not, then it is my duty to publish, and if I'm not officially backed up there may be war in a week. Macedonia would be flaming, Turkish fanatics would embroil Europe. But that will be seen at once in Downing Street, unless I'm very much mistaken."
"It is an awful, horrible risk we're running," said Spence. "But I admit Hands' letter and diagrams seem so flawless. Just look at the clarity of that photograph. He's exhausted every means of disproving what he says. But supposing it is all untrue!"
"I look at it this way," said Ommaney. "It is perfectly obvious that the discovery is of the first importance, regarded as news. Hands has the reputation of being a thoroughly safe man, and now he's supported by Schmöulder, an archaeologist of worldwide reputation. As these two are certain, even if later opinion or discovery proves the thing to be untrue, the paper cannot suffer. Our attitude will of course be non-committal, until certainty one way or the other comes. At any rate, it seems to me that you've brought in the greatest newspaper scoop that has ever been known or thought of."
Ommaney paused a moment before continuing. "For my part, Spence, I have little doubt of the truth of this. Can't go into it now, but it seems so very, very probable. In a way it can be regarded as good news for Christians, because it explains, and even corroborates so much of the Gospel narrative."
"Apart from the Resurrection," Spence said.
"Yes, apart from that. We'll see what Sir Robert Llwellyn says. I have more to go into, but meanwhile I must make arrangements for setting up Hands's papers. Then there are the inscriptions. As we can't print in halftone, I must have this photograph turned into an absolutely correct line drawing, and have line blocks made. I'll have pulls of the whole thing prepared and sent by post tomorrow at midnight to the editors of all the dailies in London and Paris, and to the heads of the various Christian Churches. I'll also prepare a statement, showing exactly how the documents have come into our possession and what steps we're taking. I'll write the thing tonight, after I have seen the Prime Minister."
He went to his writing table once more, moved the telephone indicator and summoned the foreman printer.
Arrangements made, Ommaney turned to Harold Spence. "You must go to Jerusalem at once. Start for Paris tomorrow morning at nine. You'd better go round to your chambers and pack up now, then come back here till it is time to start. You can sleep en route. I'll be here till breakfast time, and I can give you final instructions."
He used the telephone once more and his secretary, an alert young man, came in.
"Mr. Spence starts for Palestine tomorrow morning, Marriott," he said. "He's going straight through to Jerusalem as fast as may be. Oblige me by getting out a route for him at once, marking all the times for steamers and trains in a clear scheme for Mr. Spence to take with him. Be very careful with the Continental timetables. If you can see any delay anywhere likely to occur, go down to Cook's early in the morning and make full inquiries. If you have to, arrange for any special trains that may be necessary. Mr. Spence must not be delayed a day. Also map out various points on the journey, with the proper times, where we can telegraph instructions to Mr. Spence. Go down to Mr. Woolford and ask him for a hundred pounds in notes and give them to Mr. Spence. Arrange the usual letter of credit during the day, and wire Mr. Spence at Paris after lunch."
The young man went out to do his part in the great organisation which Ommaney controlled.
"Then you'll be back between three and four this morning?" Ommaney said to Spence.
"Yes, I'll go and pack at once," Spence answered. "My passport from the Foreign Office is up to date."
He rose to go, vigorous, and with an inexpressible sense of relief at the active prospect before him. He was going to the very heart of things, to see and gain personal knowledge of these events which would soon be overshadowing the world.
The door opened as he rose and Folliott Farmer strode in. With him was a tall, distinguished man in his mid thirties. wearing evening dress, and rather bald.
It was Lord Trelyon, the Prime Minister's private secretary.
"I thought I would come myself with your Mr. Farmer, Mr. Ommaney," he said, shaking hands cordially. "The Prime Minister tells me to say that if it is absolutely imperative, he will see you. I suppose there is no doubt of that?"
"None whatever, I'm sorry to say, Lord Trelyon," the editor answered. "Farmer, will you take charge till I return?"
With that, they left for Downing Street, and Spence made his way to Lincoln's Inn to pack.
Fleet Street was brilliantly lit and almost silent. A few cabs hovered about and that was all. Presently all the air would be filled with the dull roar and hum of the great printing machines in their underground halls, but the press hour was not yet.
The porter let Spence into the Inn, and in a few moments he was striking matches and lighting the gas. Mrs. Buscall had cleared away the breakfast things, but the fire had long since gone out. The big rooms looked bare and solitary, unfamiliar almost, as the gas jets hissed in the silence.
One or two letters were in the box. One envelope bore the Manchester postmark. It was from Basil Gortre. A curious pang, half wonder and anticipation, half fear, passed through his mind as he saw the familiar handwriting of his friend. But it was a pang for Basil, not for himself. He himself was wholly detached now that the time for action had arrived. Personal consideration would come later.
He felt a fierce joy and exultation throbbing in his veins after the inactivity of the last few weeks.
He sat down at the table, first getting some bread and cheese from a cupboard, for he was hungry. He opened a bottle of beer. The beer tasted wonderfully good. He laughed exultingly in the flow of his high spirits.
He wrote a note to Mrs. Buscall, long since trained to accept these sudden midnight departures, and another to Basil Gortre. To Basil he said that some great and momentous discoveries were made at Jerusalem by Hands, and he was starting at once for the Holy City as special correspondent for The Wire. He would write en route, he explained. There was no time for any details now.
"Poor chap," he said to himself. "He'll know soon enough now. I hope he won't take it too badly."
Then he went into his bedroom and hauled down the great pigskin kitbag, covered with foreign labels, which had accompanied him half over the world.
He packed quickly and completely, the result of long practice. The pads of paper, the stylographic pens with the special ink for hot countries which would not dry up or corrode, his revolver, riding breeches, boots and spurs, the Kodak with spare films and light-tight zinc cases, the old sun helmet -- he forgot nothing.
When he finished, and the big bag, with a small Gladstone also, was strapped and locked, he changed joyously from the black coat of cities into his travelling tweeds of tough cloth. At length everything seemed prepared. He sat on the bed and looked round, willing to be gone.
His eye fell on the opposite wall. A crucifix hung there, carved in ebony and ivory. During his short holiday at Dieppe, nearly nine months ago now, he had gone into the famous shop where carved work of all kinds was sold. Basil and Helena were with him and they had all bought mementoes. Helena had given him that.
As he looked at it now, he wondered what his journey would bring forth. Was he, indeed, chosen out of men to go to this far country to tear Christ from that awful and holy Cross? Was it to be his mission to extinguish the Light of the World?
As he gazed at the sacred emblem he felt this could not be.
No, no! A thousand times no. Jesus had risen to save him and all other sinners. It was so, must be so, should be so.
The Holy Name was in itself enough. He whispered it to himself. That was eternally, gloriously true.
Humbly, faithfully, gladly, he knelt and said the Lord's P
rayer.
Chapter 14
Sir Michael Manichoe was a man of great natural gifts. The owner of one of those colossal fortunes which had such far-reaching influence on English life, he employed it in a way which, for a man in his position, was unique.
In political life Sir Michael was a steady, rather than a brilliant, force. He had been Home Secretary under a former Conservative administration, but had retired from office. At the present moment he was a private member for the division in which his large country house stood, and he enjoyed the confidence of the chiefs of his party.
His great talent was for organisation, and all his powers in that direction were devoted towards the preservation and unification of the Christian faith to which he was a convert.
The day after the news arrived in Fleet Street from Palestine, while nothing was yet known, and Harold Spence was rushing through Amiens en route for Paris and the Middle East, a routine house party began to collect at Fencastle in Lincolnshire, the magnificent country home of Sir Michael, one of many such parties held throughout the year.
Some important people were to meet once more under Sir Michael's roof to discuss the affairs of Church and State. The large country house in the fenlands was frequently the scene of such notable gatherings.
As Father Ripon drove to Liverpool Street Station from the vicarage in Bloomsbury after lunch, to catch the afternoon train to the eastern counties, he was reading a letter from Sir Michael Manichoe as his cab turned into Cheapside and crawled slowly through the heavy afternoon traffic of the city.
... It will be as well for you to see Constantine Schuabe behind closed doors and form your own opinions. There can be no doubt that he is a force to be reckoned with, and he is, moreover, as I think you will agree after inspection, far more brilliant and able than any other openly professed antichristian of the front rank.
Then there will also be Mrs. Hubert Armstrong. She is a pseudo-intellectual force, but her writings have a certain heaviness and authoritative note which I believe have real influence with the large class of semi-educated people who mistake a hint of knowledge for knowledge itself. A very charming woman, by the way, and I think sincere.
... I hope that as a representative of English Churchmen you will be able to define what we think in an unmistakable way. This will have value. Among my other guests you will meet Canon Walke. He is preaching in Lincoln Cathedral on the Sunday, fresh from Windsor.
I am, Father, yours most sincerely,
M. M.
Still thinking carefully over Sir Michael's letter, Father Ripon bought his ticket and made his way to the platform.
He got into a first class carriage. While in London he lived a life of asceticism and simplicity which was not so much a considered thing as the outcome of an absolute and unconscious carelessness about personal and material comfort. When he went thus to a great country house, he complied with convention because it was prudent.
The carriage was empty, though a pile of newspapers and a travelling rug in one corner showed Father Ripon that he was to have one companion at any rate on the journey.
He had bought the Church Times at the bookstall and was soon deeply immersed in the report of a Bampton Lecture delivered during the week at the University Church in Oxford.
Someone entered the carriage, the door was shut, and the train began to move out of the station, but he was too interested to look up to see who his companion might be.
A voice broke in on his thoughts as they were tearing through the widespread slums of Bethnal Green.
"Do you mind if I smoke, sir? This isn't a smoking carriage, but we are alone."
It was an ordinary query enough. "Oh, please do!" said Ripon. "Please do, to your heart's content. It doesn't inconvenience me."
Father Ripon's quick, breezy manner seemed to interest the stranger. Obviously this clergyman was someone of note. The heavy brows, the hawk-like nose, the large, firm, and yet kindly mouth, all these seemed familiar in some vague way.
For his part, Father Ripon experienced much the same sensation as he glanced at the tall fellow-traveller. His hair, which could be seen beneath his ordinary hard felt hat, was dark red and somewhat abundant. The large black eyes were neither dull nor lifeless, but simply cold and alert. A massive jaw completed an impression which was remarkable in its fineness and almost sinister looks.
The priest found it remarkable, but with no sense of strangeness. He had seen the man before.
Recognition came to Schuabe first.
"Excuse me," he said, "but surely you are Father Ripon? I am Constantine Schuabe."
Ripon gave a merry chuckle. "I knew I knew you!" he said, "but I couldn't think quite who you were for a moment. Sir Michael tells me you're going to Fencastle. So am I."
Schuabe leaned back in his seat and regarded Father Ripon with a steady and calm scrutiny, somewhat with the manner of a naturalist examining a curious specimen, with a suggestion of aloofness in his eyes.
Suddenly Father Ripon smiled rather sternly, and the deep furrows which sprang into his cheeks showed the latent strength and power of the face.
"Well, Mr. Schuabe," he said abruptly, "the train doesn't stop anywhere for an hour, so no matter what, you're locked up with a priest!"
"A welcome opportunity, Father Ripon, to convince you that perhaps the devil isn't as black as he's painted."
"I have read your books," said Ripon, "and I believe you are sincere, Mr. Schuabe. It is not a personal question at all. At the same time, if I had the power, you know I would cheerfully execute you or imprison you for life: not out of revenge for what you have done, but as a precautionary measure. You would then have no further opportunity for doing harm." He smiled as he spoke.
"Rather severe," said Schuabe laughing. "Because I find that in a rational view of history there's no place for a Resurrection and Ascension, you would give me your blessing and a sentence of burning for heresy!"
"I sometimes believe in stern measures," answered the clergyman, with an underlying seriousness, though he spoke half in jest. "Not for all heretics, you know -- only the dangerous ones."
"You're afraid of intellect when it is brought to bear on these questions."
"I thought that would be your rejoinder, Mr. Schuabe. Superficially it is a very telling one, because there's nothing as insidious as a half-truth. In a sense what you say is true. There are a great many Christians whose faith is weak and whose natural inclinations, assisted by supernatural temptations, are towards a life of sin. Faith in Jesus Christ keeps them from it. Now, your books come in the way of such people as these far more readily and easily than works of Christian apologetics written with equal power. An attack on our position has all the elements of popularity and novelty. For example, ten thousand people have heard of your Christ Reconceived, for every ten who know Lathom's Risen Master. You have said the last word for agnosticism and made it widely public, whereas the Master of Trinity Hall has said the last word for Christianity and only scholars know of it. It is not the strength of your case which makes you dangerous, it is the ignorance of the public and a condition of affairs which makes it possible for you to shout loudest."
"Well, there is at least a half-truth in what you say, Mr. Ripon," said Schuabe. "But you don't seem to have brought anything to eat. Will you share my luncheon basket? There's quite enough for two people."
Father Ripon had been called away after the early Communion, and had forgotten to have any breakfast.
"Thank you very much," he said; "I will. I suddenly seem to be hungry, and after all, there is scriptural precedent for spoiling the Egyptians!"
Both laughed again, sheathed their weapons, and began to eat.
Each of them was a man with a knowledge of the world, cultured, with a charming personality. Each knew the other was impervious to attack.
Only once, as the short afternoon was darkening and they were approaching their destination, did Schuabe refer to controversial subjects. The carriage was shadowed and dusky as they rus
hed through the desolate fenlands. The millionaire lit a match for a cigarette, and the sudden flare showed him the priest's face, set and stern. He seemed to be thinking deeply.
"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe asked, in a tone of interested curiosity, "what would you do if some stupendous thing were to happen, something to occur which proved without doubt that Christ was not divine? Supposing it suddenly became an absolute fact, a historical fact which everyone must accept?"
"Some new discovery, you mean?"
"Well, if you like. Never mind the actual means. Assume for a moment that it became certain as a historical fact that the Resurrection did not take place. You see, I firmly believe that the ignorant love of Christ's first disciples wreathed His life in legend; that the true story was from the beginning obscured by error, hysteria, and mistake. Supposing something proved what I say in such a way as to leave no loophole for denial. As a representative Christian, what would you do? This interests me."
"Well, you're assuming an impossibility, and I cannot argue on such a hypothesis. But, if for a moment what you say could happen, I might not be able to deny these proofs, but I should never believe them."
"But surely----"
"Christ is within. I have found Him myself, with no possibility of mistake. Day and night I am in communion with Him."
"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing a person who takes that attitude. But it is rare."
"Faith is weak in the world," said Ripon with a sigh, as the train drew up in the little wayside station.
A footman took their luggage to a carriage which was waiting, and they drove off rapidly through the twilight, over the bare brown fen with a chill, leaden sky meeting it on the horizon, towards Fencastle.
Sir Michael's house was an ancient feature of those parts. Josiah Manichoe, his father, had bought it from old Lord Lostorich. To this day Sir Michael paid two pounds each year, as "Knight's fee," to the lord of the manor at Denton, a fee first paid in 1236. As it stood now, the house was Tudor in exterior, covering a vast area with its stately, explicit, and yet homelike, rather than "homely," beauty.