It is not for you or me to judge Manfred and his works. I say “Manfred,” though I might as well have said “Gonsalez,” or for the matter of that “Poiccart,” since they are equally guilty or great accor...

The tall man’s hand was in his pocket when the detective spoke. When he had entered the hall he had thrown a swift glance round the place and taken in every detail. He had seen the beaded strip of unp...

The front page of every big London daily was again black with the story of the Four Just Men. “What I should like,” said the editor of the Megaphone, wistfully, “is a sort of official propaganda from ...

The Inner Council sent out an urgent call to the men who administer the affairs of the Red Hundred. Starque came, François, the Frenchman, came, Hollom, the Italian, Paul Mirtisky, George Grabe, the A...

Lauder Bartholomew knew a man who was farming in Uganda. It was not remarkable that he should suddenly remember his friend’s existence and call to mind a three years’ old invitation to spend a winter ...

The Woman of Gratz was very human. But to Bartholomew she seemed a thing of ice, passionless, just a beautiful woman who sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair, regarding him with calm, questioning ey...

In recording the events that followed the reappearance of the Four Just Men, I have confined myself to those which I know to have been the direct outcome of the Red Hundred propaganda and the counter-...

From what secret place in the metropolis the Woman of Gratz reorganized her forces we shall never know; whence came her strength of purpose and her unbounded energy we can guess. With Starque’s death ...

Some workmen, returning home of an evening and taking a shortcut through a field two miles from Catford, saw a man hanging from a tree. They ran across and found a fashionably dressed gentleman of for...

To fathom the mind of the Woman of Gratz is no easy task, and one not to be lightly undertaken. Remembering her obscure beginning, the bare-legged child drinking in revolutionary talk in the Transylva...

Manfred sat alone in his Lewisham house⁠—he was known to the old lady who was his caretaker as “a foreign gentleman in the music line”⁠—and in the subdued light of the shaded lamp, he looked tired. A ...

Charles Garrett, admirable journalist, had written the last line of a humorous description of a local concert at which a cabinet minister had sung pathetic ballads. Charles wrote with difficulty, for ...

In the handsomely furnished sitting-room of a West Kensington flat, Gonsalez and Poiccart sat over their postprandial cigars, each busy with his own thoughts. Poiccart tossed his cigar into the firepl...

They were privileged people who gained admission to the Old Bailey, people with tickets from sheriffs, reporters, great actors, and very successful authors. The early editions of the evening newspaper...

They took Manfred back to Wandsworth Gaol on the night of the trial. The governor, standing in the gloomy courtyard as the van drove in with its clanking escort, received him gravely. “Is there anythi...

If you pass through the little door that leads to the porter’s lodge (the door will be locked and bolted behind you) your conductor will pass you through yet another door into a yard that is guarded b...

Literally, “Head off.” ↩...