Chapter 2 - Page 2

No answer came.

"Go on," I said, looking up.

The big blue eyes of Basil Grant were standing out of his head and
he was paying no attention to me. He was staring over the side of
the tram.

"What is the matter?" I asked, peering over also.

"It is very odd," said Grant at last, grimly, "that I should have
been caught out like this at the very moment of my optimism. I said
all these people were good, and there is the wickedest man in
England."

"Where?" I asked, leaning over further, "where?"

"Oh, I was right enough," he went on, in that strange continuous
and sleepy tone which always angered his hearers at acute moments,
"I was right enough when I said all these people were good. They
are heroes; they are saints. Now and then they may perhaps steal a
spoon or two; they may beat a wife or two with the poker. But they
are saints all the same; they are angels; they are robed in white;
they are clad with wings and haloes--at any rate compared to that
man."

"Which man?" I cried again, and then my eye caught the figure at
which Basil's bull's eyes were glaring.

He was a slim, smooth person, passing very quickly among the
quickly passing crowd, but though there was nothing about him
sufficient to attract a startled notice, there was quite enough to
demand a curious consideration when once that notice was attracted.
He wore a black top-hat, but there was enough in it of those
strange curves whereby the decadent artist of the eighties tried to
turn the top-hat into something as rhythmic as an Etruscan vase.
His hair, which was largely grey, was curled with the instinct of
one who appreciated the gradual beauty of grey and silver. The rest
of his face was oval and, I thought, rather Oriental; he had two
black tufts of moustache.

"What has he done?" I asked.

"I am not sure of the details," said Grant, "but his besetting sin
is a desire to intrigue to the disadvantage of others. Probably he
has adopted some imposture or other to effect his plan."

"What plan?" I asked. "If you know all about him, why don't you
tell me why he is the wickedest man in England? What is his name?"

Basil Grant stared at me for some moments.

"I think you've made a mistake in my meaning," he said. "I don't
know his name. I never saw him before in my life."

"Never saw him before!" I cried, with a kind of anger; "then what
in heaven's name do you mean by saying that he is the wickedest man
in England?"

"I meant what I said," said Basil Grant calmly. "The