Guy de Maupassant once remarked to me that it was necessary to preserve the Anarchists in order to make modern history interesting.

The rulers of the world seem to be of the same opinion. Over and over again scientists and men of common sense have told them that the Anarchist is simply a diseased mind, requiring to be dealt with like other brain-sick creatures. But statesmen and police alike have persisted in treating the Anarchist as a serious politician, with results which are, unfortunately, too well known.

It is true that, after the death of Elizabeth of Austria, the chivalrous King of Italy, Humbert, summoned a conference of diplomatists and police directors in Venice to consider methods for dealing with the Anarchists. But he would have done better to call in Professor Lombroso. I myself would undertake to guarantee the life of every ruler in Europe and America, for the sum of £20,000 a year, provided I were allowed to incarcerate in an asylum every man whom I could prove to be a sufferer from homicidal mania.

As it was, I foreboded that the only result of King Humbert’s gallant action would be to point him out to these creatures as their next victim. Yet I must now so far confess myself mistaken as to declare that the death of the late King of Italy does not really lie at the door of Anarchism.

It was another European sovereign, more alive to the realities of the situation than Humbert, who secretly commissioned me to make an investigation into the organisation of the Anarchist sect and the trend of its operations. I must not disclose the name of this monarch; to do so would be to point him out to the vengeance of the assassins.

As soon as I had received his commission I laid aside all my other work and prepared to disappear for an indefinite period.

My first step was to transform myself into a workman, or rather a loafer, for an industrious workman is seldom found among the ‘active’ Anarchists. I secured a few jobs in Paris as a house-painter’s labourer—that is to say, I did the scraping and cleaning before the skilled workman applied the fresh coats of paint. I took care to show no zeal in my employment, and in the intervals of work I hung about the brasseries and grumbled at the smallness of my earnings.

By these tactics I quickly earned the reputation of a good comrade, and a true-hearted Republican. The Socialists of the quarter I had chosen to work in quickly recognised me as a likely convert, and I allowed them to enrol me in one of the most advanced societies.

All these measures were mere preliminaries to the final one of blossoming forth as a declared Anarchist. It is from the ranks of Socialism that Anarchism draws its recruits. Though the two theories are utterly opposed, they express the same discontent with civilisation. An Anarchist is little more than a Socialist who has gone out of his mind.

By going over to the Anarchist group from the arms of their rivals, I ensured myself a welcome which would never have been given to me had I attempted to force myself upon them at the outset.

Among the Anarchists it was necessary to adopt rather different tactics. I had now to play the part of a dangerous lunatic, only awaiting direction from some superior mind to commit an act of violence.

Paris itself is not an important Anarchist centre. The French police are too quick witted for their capital to be a comfortable residence for these desperadoes. The three great centres, as most people know, are Zürich, London, and Jersey City, U.S.A.

Zürich is the Russian headquarters, and is rather a place for Nihilists than international Anarchists. I therefore decided to cross over to London, in the hope of coming into touch with the leading minds of the sect.

In London I found myself received without the least suspicion. My carefully prepared record stood me in good stead. I was introduced by my Parisian comrades as a promising convert from Socialism, and no one inquired further.

I found the London Anarchists torn by internal dissensions which left them no time to think of attacking kings and queens. The first man I was asked to murder was Prince ——, the leader of the idealist group, whose sole offence was his refusal to concur in the homicidal programme of the active Anarchists.

I refused to execute this mandate, on the plea that I had vowed to put to death a crowned head, and could not afford to risk my life in the pursuit of humbler prey.

I may state here that the elaborate machinery of secret meetings, oaths, ballots, and so on has no existence except in the imagination of popular novelists. Their fantastic descriptions can only provoke a smile on the part of any one who has been behind the scenes of Anarchism.

The Anarchists are a fluctuating community, here to-day and gone to-morrow, among whom a few leading spirits who have learned to know and trust each other by actual experience exercise an influence much like that exercised by the Front Bench over a Parliamentary party in England, an influence which varies with their own concord and strength of character.

When these leaders find a man whom they see to be a suitable instrument, they bring their influence to bear on him to carry out whatever object they may agree upon. In some cases perhaps a pantomimic scene is arranged, such as we read of in romances, to impress a weak mind. I can only say that I never saw anything of the sort.

A well-known Anarchist, whose name would be recognised immediately were I to mention it, took me aside one night, and suggested to me the removal of the Prince. I gave the answer I have mentioned, and the proposal was instantly dropped.

My refusal was followed, naturally enough, by an attempt on my own life. Two days afterwards the editor of an Anarchist paper, who had taken rather a fancy to me, came round to my lodgings before daybreak and advised me to leave for America. He gave me no reason for this advice, but he was very urgent with me, and insisted on writing me a letter of introduction to a man living in Jersey City. I promised to consider the matter, and he bade me farewell.

On leaving my lodging an hour later to go and look for a job—the customary pretence—I discovered immediately that I was being followed. I need scarcely say that for me to baffle the clumsy espionage of such blunderers would have been the easiest thing in the world. But I wished to see how far they would go, and I allowed my tracker to follow me all day. At night I went down to the Thames Embankment. I placed myself on the edge of the river steps by Cleopatra’s Needle, and waited.

I am a good swimmer, and I did not think it likely that my enemy would use a weapon if he thought he could get rid of me by the simple method of pushing me into the water. A pistol would be too dangerous for himself on account of the report. I had seen that he did not carry a stick. He was probably armed with a knife, and he might try and give me a thrust with it as he pushed me over; but a knife-thrust in the back is not a very serious thing to a man who has been in the habit of wearing a mail shirt for twenty years.

I am ready to confess that my heart beat faster as I heard the stealthy tread coming up behind me. To my surprise the would-be assassin paused before he had got within striking distance, and shuffled with his feet on the flags. Puzzled by these tactics I glanced round and saw a young man, not more than twenty years of age, whose face was white, and who was trembling in every limb. At once I grasped the situation. The poor wretch’s heart had failed him, and he was trying to put me on my guard against himself, in order that he might have an excuse for not carrying out his task.

I walked past him without a word, shook him off in the course of the next hour, and took the last train to Liverpool.

On my arrival in the States, I lost no time in seeking out the man to whom my editor friend had furnished me with an introduction. To the European reader it may be worth while to explain that Jersey City practically joins on to New York, so that it is really a suburb of the American metropolis.

I was received with open arms by this man—an Italian named Ferretti—and I became a member of the most influential Anarchist club. Among those I sometimes played dominoes with there was a long-haired dreamer named Bresci, a visitor from Paterson. All this time I passed under the name of Lebrun. My American citizenship I carefully concealed.

I soon saw that some one had informed the American group of my being bound by oath to kill a crowned head. On all hands I was treated with the deference due to a prospective martyr. It was not long before Ferretti himself began to sound me as to my willingness to make Humbert of Italy my victim.

I was careful not to discourage this suggestion as I had the one made to me in London. I listened to all Ferretti had to say with apparent acquiescence.

‘Humbert has placed himself at the head of our enemies,’ he urged. ‘This Venice conference is a declaration of war. If we wish to maintain our moral ascendency we must strike a blow which will intimidate other rulers from proceeding against us.’

As soon as I could get away I went into New York and sent a code telegram to my secretary in Paris for him to decipher and send on to the King of Italy. It was in these terms: ‘Anarchists in Jersey City, U.S.A., are looking for man to send against you. Have ports watched.’

Unfortunately the King paid no attention to this warning. He was a fatalist, it seems.

Ferretti returned to the charge before long. I kept him in play, neither consenting nor refusing, my object being, of course, to retain his confidence. I did not want another man to be despatched instead of me without my knowledge.

It was not long before others beside Ferretti began to try and influence me in the same direction. It is difficult to trace the first birth of suspicion in the mind, but a suspicion was born in mine that these men had some motive which they had not yet disclosed to me for urging me to this attempt.

I tested them at last by making a counter-proposal. It was in the club, late one night, and there were present, beside Ferretti, another Italian who called himself ‘The Bear,’ a bearded German named Peters, and a Swiss watchmaker, who was lame and used crutches. These four seemed to have a common understanding.

Peters had been acting as spokesman, and strongly denouncing the proceedings at Venice, which he described as an abandonment of the methods of civilisation—a curious complaint for an Anarchist to make.

Ferretti applied the moral.

‘Some one must be found to avenge us,’ he declared. ‘If Humbert is suffered to live, our principles are doomed.’

‘I am not sure of that,’ I answered. ‘Humbert is not a politician. He has been stirred up because Luccheni killed a woman, which, in my opinion, was an unwise action. We ought to choose our victims more carefully. It is absurd to pick off a man like Humbert, when there are such enemies as —— and —— alive.’

My remarks were received in ominous silence. The other four exchanged looks of disappointment. The Bear was the first to protest.

‘It is the curse of Anarchism that every one wants to have his own opinion. It seems to me that when men like ourselves, who have guided the movement for years, are agreed on the right course of action, a new comrade ought to accept our decision.’

I did not retort that the word Anarchist, if it meant anything, meant one who had his own opinion and refused to be guided by the agreement of others. There is nothing a fanatic resents so much as reason, except ridicule. Instead, I affected to be surprised.

‘Do you mean that you disapprove of the execution of ——?’ I demanded, naming a man whose reputation for cruelty and bigotry was world wide.

‘The removal of Humbert ought to come first,’ was the answer.

‘Do you say that deliberately? Have all our comrades made up their minds, or is it merely your own opinion?’

‘It is the judgment of us four,’ said The Bear. ‘That ought to be enough.’

‘We are willing to provide funds for any comrade who will undertake the mission,’ added Peters.

‘But not for any other mission, such as one against ——?’ I ventured to object.

‘We have not said that. We are ready to consider an application.’

The last answer came from the lame watchmaker, who had kept his eyes fixed on me with a close scrutiny during the whole conversation. It was evident that this man was more cautious than the other three, and that he had begun to distrust me. Perhaps he thought I was a boaster; perhaps his suspicions went deeper.

‘Well, I am not under anybody’s orders,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Show me that I can serve the cause better by Humbert’s removal than any one else’s, and I will take the mission.’

The four let me come away in silence. I had now no doubt whatever that there was some very strong motive in the background behind all this talk about the Venice conference, and I sent a fresh wire to the threatened King—‘American group absolutely determined on your death, and offering bribes.’

This telegram was treated with the same indifference as its predecessor.

Ferretti was naturally more inclined to trust me than were the others, thanks to my London friend’s recommendation. I was, therefore, not surprised to receive a call from him the next day, and to find that he was at last going to show his hand.

‘It is right, is it not,’ he began, ‘that you are prepared to undertake the removal of one of our enemies, provided you are satisfied that you are doing good to the cause?’

‘That is all I ask,’ I responded; ‘Humbert or another, what does it matter to me?’

‘You don’t consider that the fact that Humbert has taken a leading part against us marks him out for destruction?’

‘No, I don’t; I don’t believe he is any worse than the others.’

‘Very well; admitting that, for the sake of argument; if I were to prove to you that Humbert’s death would benefit the cause specially in other ways, what would you say?’

‘If I believed that, I should most likely consent.’

‘Good! That is what I expected. Now you understand that what I am going to tell you must be in the very greatest confidence.’

I nodded.

‘The removal of Humbert will put funds at our disposal for other work.’

At last I was on the trail. Carefully concealing my excitement under an appearance of natural curiosity, I inquired: ‘How is that, comrade?’

‘You must not ask too much. I have only got authority to tell you that it is so. A sum of money will be ours as soon as Humbert is dead.’

‘And you will not tell me how or why?’

Ferretti hesitated.

‘It has been promised us—guaranteed to us, in fact—by one who has reasons of his own for wanting to see Humbert out of the way.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ I objected. ‘It sounds as though we were being hired as private assassins.’

Ferretti’s face fell.

‘I am afraid I cannot tell you anything more without consulting others,’ he said slowly. ‘I will swear to you, if you like, that it is not a case of private revenge. The person behind us has public reasons for his conduct, though they are not the same as ours.’

This statement threw me into a brown study. What public reasons could any one possibly have for the removal of the King of Italy? The Garibaldians? No, they were not assassins—besides, they would not have come to America to get a suitable instrument. There were plenty nearer at hand.

‘Listen to me,’ I said at length. ‘When I took a vow to rid the world of a crowned head at the risk of my own life, I did not undertake to become a blind tool in the hands of any one else. I owe no obedience to you or our comrades. I say what I said last night—convince me that I ought to kill Humbert, and I will. But it is no good if you can’t trust me. Why should I trust you with my life, when you won’t trust me with your reasons for wanting this King out of the way?’

Ferretti was staggered.

‘I will tell the others what you say,’ he declared. ‘For my part, I think your demand is reasonable.’

He left me, but did not come back. Days passed, and no further overture was made to me. On the contrary, the lame Swiss began to talk to me about the other victims I had pointed out, and to encourage me to fix on one of them.

I was able to guess what had happened. The four were looking for a more docile tool.

I sent off a third wire:

‘I have lost touch with the conspiracy. From this moment I no longer answer for your life.’

This warning was not even shown to the doomed King.

I now adopted a course which I had put off as long as possible, on account of the risk involved. I secretly engaged a second lodging at a distance, where I could disguise myself as I pleased, and began to shadow the Anarchist leaders.

It was a dangerous game to play, because such men were accustomed to find themselves the subject of police surveillance, and would probably be quick to detect anything of the sort. My only chance of success lay in the fact that I already possessed so much knowledge of their movements as to make the task of watching them a comparatively easy one.

I had come to the conclusion that the real head of the group was the crippled Swiss. This man kept a small shop, chiefly for repairs, in the heart of the Italian quarter. I made up as a Corsican, to account for any imperfections of accent, and hung about the neighbourhood, begging.

Ferretti, Peters, and The Bear were frequent visitors, and the simpleton Bresci called once or twice, but for some days I saw nothing that I could fix upon as having a suspicious look. I remembered, however, that the lame watchmaker had always been missing from the gatherings at the club on Saturday nights, and I looked forward to making some discovery when the end of the week arrived.

I was not disappointed, though I had to wait so long that I almost gave up hope. Just as the clock struck ten a tall, swarthy figure brushed right by me, and slipped into the little shop. The moment after, the lame man came out into the street, and began putting up the shutters.

It was necessary to act promptly. I stepped up to the Swiss and whispered my assumed name in his ear.

‘Lebrun! You!’ he ejaculated in astonishment. ‘I thought you were one of the police.’

‘It is the other way about,’ I answered. ‘The police have been after me; that is why I have had to disguise myself. But let us come inside, I want to talk to you.’

As I expected, he tried to prevent me going in.

‘No, not there. I have some one on business.’

‘Business of the cause?’ I demanded.

‘Yes—no, private business.’

‘I will wait in the shop till he is gone,’ I returned, and pushed my way through the door, the cripple following.

The tall, dark figure started to its feet in evident alarm as we entered. I saw a brown hand glide towards the bosom, an action which told me that I was not dealing with a European. In the dim light of the little shop I could not fix the stranger’s nationality more precisely. He did not seem to be an Arab; he was above the grade of a negro. If I had met him in Algiers I should have called him a Sudanese, a convenient term for the unknown races of Africa.

The situation was a complicated one. The watchmaker, it was evident, did not more than half believe my account of myself; I could not tell that the stranger really had any connection with the mystery I wanted to unravel; and he must have been utterly confounded by my intrusion.

‘Is your friend one of us? Does he know anything about the business you put before me the other day?’ I asked of the Swiss in Italian.

Before the Swiss could do more than give me a warning gesture, the unknown had addressed him in the sort of Italian which forms the common speech of seamen in the Levant.

‘Is this the man you thought you could persuade to undertake the work?’

The watchmaker was fairly cornered.

‘Go inside and I will speak to you,’ he said to the swarthy outlander; then he added, speaking in quick French to me—‘I must have some explanation with you before I trust you again.’

‘That will not do for me,’ I returned, sticking to my Italian and trying to render it intelligible to the unknown. ‘You have asked me to do a dangerous work on behalf of the cause; very well, I am ready to do it, but first I insist on knowing who is going to provide the sinews of war. That is fair, it seems to me.’

This time the stranger’s tone became peremptory.

‘Why do not you wish me to speak to this man?’ he asked.

The shopkeeper scowled at both of us by turns.

‘Because I don’t know that he is right,’ he muttered.

‘How do I know that you are right?’ I retorted. ‘It appears you are going to have a big price for this business, and you want me to shut my eyes and not ask what becomes of the money.’

The Swiss wrung his hands in despair. I believe that he was quite honest, and that he wished for the money in order to spread his atrocious principles; while his distrust of me was only too well founded.

I addressed myself boldly to the unknown.

‘I am your man, I believe. Tell me who you are, and why you want this job carried out, and I will undertake it. As for the money, you may hand that over to my comrade here, as long as I know how much it is.’

This last offer turned the balance. The Swiss himself proposed that we should come into the back shop and talk things over in confidence.

When we were all three seated together, it was the watchmaker who gave me the long-sought explanation in a few words.

‘This man is an Abyssinian. He has come here on behalf of the Emperor Menelik.’

‘Menelik!’ I exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What has he got to do with us?’

‘Nothing directly; but if you have read the papers you must know that Humbert was the moving spirit in the Abyssinian war. He made peace after Adowa, under pressure from the Crown Prince, who told him the dynasty was in danger. But Menelik believes that the King is secretly preparing for a fresh attack. He is in league with the British, who are advancing from the Sudan. The Abyssinians want to clear the Italians out of their country altogether, and they can never do that while Humbert is alive. That is how it stands, isn’t it?’

This last question was addressed to Menelik’s agent. The Abyssinian answered by a smile that showed his formidable white teeth.

‘The King of Italy is the enemy of Abyssinia. The King of Italy must die. If an Abyssinian tries to kill him, he will be suspected, and stopped; therefore he must be killed by a European. The Negus has sent me to find a European who will do this for money. I have been in Italy and France, and there they told me that it was best for me to apply to the followers of your religion, which teaches that all kings ought to be killed. Is it not so? Therefore I come here, to the headquarters of your sect. If one of you will accept the task, on that day I pay him in the money of this country one thousand dollars. On the day I hear that King Humbert is dead I pay you four thousand dollars. Divide it how you like; that is nothing to me.’

Improbable as a fairy tale though all this sounded, I could not resist the evidence of my own senses, which showed me the Abyssinian envoy there in the flesh. I knew, of course, that assassination has always been one of the recognised political methods of Asiatic and African States, but this alliance between a half-civilised despot and the extreme revolutionaries of Europe struck me as altogether without precedent in the history of the world. Certainly my own experience, fertile as it naturally had been in surprising incidents, had never brought to light a more singular intrigue than this.

My position now became an extremely difficult one. I had practically agreed to accept the commission to assassinate the King of Italy, but it was not that which troubled me. I foresaw that as soon as Menelik’s agent realised that he had been played with by me he would endeavour to find some other and more trustworthy tool. To denounce him to the police of New York would have been perfectly idle; in the first place he could buy the police, and in the second place no American court would punish a ‘political’ conspiracy, unless, indeed, it were against the United States.

I contented myself for the moment with formally undertaking the required murder. The Abyssinian arranged to bring the first instalment of the blood money to the watchmaker’s house on the following Saturday night, and we all three parted apparently on the best of terms.

The next day I sent off a long telegraphic despatch summarising the whole situation. The proposal I made was that the Italian Government should cable me authority and funds to enable me to have the Abyssinian envoy privately kidnapped, and returned to his own country, viâ Massowah.

They had the incredible folly to wire instead to their Minister in Washington, instructing him to demand the arrest and expulsion of Menelik’s agent.

The net result of this ill-considered action was to flood the Italian quarter of Jersey City for several days with sham detectives, to cause a thousand or two dollars to pass into the pockets of the local Tammany, and to compel me to hasten my departure for Europe on my supposed mission, in order to rebut the suspicions of the Anarchists—and, in fact, to escape their vengeance.

The night before my departure there was a little supper at the club, at which the four were present. No open reference was made to the object of my journey. But after supper the half-witted Bresci, who had been one of the party, asked leave to walk home with me.

‘I wish I were going with you,’ he said suddenly.

‘I wish I could put you in an asylum, where you would be taken care of,’ was my thought in answer. I said aloud that I had reasons for going alone.

‘I know those reasons,’ the enthusiast declared. ‘Let me come with you. I am not afraid.’

For a moment I hesitated. A king’s life was in the balance, though I did not know it.

I made the clever man’s common mistake—I underrated the strength of the fool.

‘Take my advice,’ I said to Bresci, ‘leave this work to men like me. You are not suited for it: you would betray yourself directly.’

His face became overcast, and he relapsed into a sullen silence which lasted till I parted from him at my own door.

An hour before stepping on board the steamer that was to convey me to Havre I sent off a final wire: ‘Am leaving to-day for Europe, pledged to kill King Humbert.’

This bitter shaft of contempt roused even the Italian police into activity. On landing at the French port I was met by a detective sent from Rome.

I took him with me to a hotel, where we discussed the situation in a private room.

‘It seems to me that we are all right for the present,’ he urged. ‘As long as they think you are going to carry out the work they are not likely to send any one else.’

‘Do not be too sure,’ I answered. ‘There is a lame watchmaker over there who does not quite trust me.’

‘What do you propose to do?’ asked the detective.

‘To shoot King Humbert,’ I replied.

The man gasped at me in sheer amazement.

‘I am going to put you to a practical test,’ I explained. ‘I am going to try and discharge a blank cartridge at the King. If you can prevent my doing so, I shall hope that his life is safe.’

‘But what do you expect us to do? We cannot arrest you.’

‘No; that is my point. You know that I am going to kill your King, and yet the law does not permit you to interfere till you see me put my finger to the trigger of my revolver.’

‘We can stop you at the frontier.’

‘Try,’ I said drily.

He tried. A week later I was in Rome.

In reality I did not intend to go quite so far as I had threatened. To do so would have been offensive to his Majesty. What I desired was to put the police thoroughly on the alert. I hoped to stimulate them into taking precautions which would be effective against a real assassin.

For I knew better than to think that Menelik’s envoy would go away satisfied with having despatched me on the errand of death. I did not believe the swarthy figure with the formidable white teeth would leave New York till he had received some certain assurance of the success of his murderous plans.

Before leaving the United States I had arranged with my old employers, Pinkerton’s, to have a watch kept on all outward-bound vessels, so that I might receive the earliest information of any move on the part of the Abyssinian. I had supplied them with a full description of the man.

Meanwhile the Italian police did their best, hampered as they were by the King’s chivalrous disregard of danger, and his dislike of surveillance. It is not an easy thing to guard a monarch against his will.

As soon as I had satisfied myself that my disguise as an Italian workman was impenetrable, I went northward after the doomed King. As my train rolled into the station at Turin, I caught a glimpse on the platform of a white face with long draggled hair and a haunted expression in the eyes—a face that I had last seen in a Jersey City slum at midnight, more than a month ago.

Long before the train stopped I had leapt out of my compartment in hot pursuit; but Bresci had disappeared.

I went instantly to the chief police-officer in Turin and gave information. Detectives were despatched in all directions to search the city; but it was too late.

The following morning a telegram was put into my hands before I got out of bed. It was from Pinkerton’s, and contained these words: ‘Man answering description has just booked passage to Liverpool.’

This despatch convinced me that the situation was desperate. Coupling the news with the sight of the evening before, I could not doubt that the Abyssinian agent expected to hear within the next few hours that his dreadful end was achieved.

I dressed in feverish haste and rushed round to the police-office, only to learn that no arrest had been made, and Bresci was still at large.

‘Unless that man is apprehended within the next twenty-four hours, King Humbert will have ceased to live,’ I told the astonished chief of police.

In this extremity I decided to proceed to Monza, see the King myself, and implore him not to stir abroad until Bresci’s capture was notified. That afternoon, as I entered the small town of Monza, I was arrested on suspicion!

It was in vain that I protested, warned, and threatened. My demand to be carried before King Humbert was regarded as a proof of guilt. My disclosure of my identity was suspected as a ruse. I was confined in a cell while telegrams were being exchanged with my friend the Italian detective, and with my secretary in Paris.

Suddenly, as I tramped impatiently up and down within my narrow bounds, I was aware of a terrible commotion outside. Men ran past the door of my prison, curses and cries were heard, and there was a sound of bayonets being fixed. Maddened by the nervous tension, I battered with my manacled hands against the cell door.

It was flung open from without, and an armed warder faced me.

‘You are free,’ he said briefly. ‘The right man has been arrested—too late.’

I sank down on the plank seat and burst into tears.