e absolute!" Something in the six simple words
arrested Henderson, suspended his thoughts and checked his hand. By an
odd psychological process his rage became chilled, his mind veered from
its point of view. With a curious stiffness of motion he drew away from
the fire--the book held uninjured in his hand.

"He will be Power made absolute!" he repeated, mechanically, as he rose
slowly to his feet.

CHAPTER III

On a certain night in mid-January, exactly ten years after Andrew
Henderson's death, any one of the multitudinous inhabitants of London
whom business or pleasure carried to that division of Brompton known as
Hellier Crescent, would undoubtedly have been attracted to the house
distinguished from its fellows as No. 8.

Outwardly, this house was not remarkable. It possessed the massive
portico and the imposing frontage that lend to Hellier Crescent its air
of dignified repose; but there its similarity to the surrounding
dwellings ended. The basement sent forth no glow of warmth and comfort,
as did the neighboring basements; the ground-floor windows permitted no
ray of mellow light to slip through the chinks of shutter or curtain.
From attic to cellar, the house seemed in darkness, the only suggestion
of occupation coming from the occasional drawing back and forth of a
small slide that guarded a monastic-looking grating set in the hall
door.

And yet towards this unlighted and unfriendly dwelling a thin stream of
people--all on foot and all evidently agitated--made their way
continuously on that January night between the hours of ten and eleven.
The behavior of these people, who differed widely in outward
characteristics, was marked by a peculiar fundamental similarity. They
all entered the quiet precincts of the Crescent with the same air of
subdued excitement; each moved softly and silently towards the darkened
house, and, mounting the steps, knocked once upon the heavy door. And
each in turn stood patient, while the slide was drawn back, and a voice
from within demanded the signal that granted admittance.

This mysterious gathering of forces had continued for nearly an hour
when a cab drew up sharply at the corner where Hellier Crescent abuts
upon St. George's Terrace, and a lady descended from it. As she handed
his fare to the cabman, her face and figure were plainly visible in the
light of the street-lamps. The former was pale in coloring, delicately
oval in shape, and illumined by a pair of larg