Despite its limitations, it was a good, solid, happy time of

        English life at its best.

            - S. M. Ellis, referring to the Victorian era in "Mainly Victorian"



     A young man with red hair made his way through the fog-covered

London streets, being careful not to get himself lost.  The only

illumination was the occasional gas-light, but in this section of the

city many of them had been broken long ago and never replaced.  He put up

the collar of his long topcoat, less for the weather than for his almost

overwhelming feeling of trepidation about his journey.

     The alleyways he traveled seemed endlessly lined with poor, wretched

people stretching out their hands in the hopes of getting some kind of

handout.  Others tried to sell whatever they could, even the rags off of

their backs.  A small girl with large, pleading eyes held out a basket of

green apples to him.

     "'Ave an apple, sir?" she asked quietly.  "Only a ha'penny, sir."

     He felt moved with pity and sadness.  She looked like she could use

medical attention.  As did most of the other people he had passed, he

reminded himself.  He couldn't help them all, much as he might like to,

but he could at least try to help this one.

     After a quick look around, he pulled a half-crown out of his pocket

and handed it to her.  He watched her eyes widen, and realized that she

might never have seen that much money in one place before.

     "Now you put that to good use," he said with a slight smile.

     "Th-thank you, sir," she replied unsteadily, handing him an apple

before hurrying away.

     He studied the apple in the dim light, wondering if he had done the

right thing.  And trying not to dwell on where the girl was likely to end

up.  The apple turned out to be spoiled, so he threw it into a nearby gutter.

     As he continued on his way, he began to realize how out-of-place he

must look.  His clothes, while not in excellent condition, were

impeccably clean for this part of the city.  That could make him a target

for thieves, or worse.  He hurried on a bit faster.

     The street he sought turned out to be little more than a larger,

more deserted alley flanked on both sides by decrepit buildings.  He

hated to think of the conditions inside of them, the overcrowding and

disease that must be all too common among those forced to live there.

     He saw several men coming toward him, and his first thought was that

they were about to rob him, perhaps even beat him up and leave him for

dead.  Before he could decide whether to run or stand his ground, the

first man had already walked past him.  The man seemed oblivious to his

presence.  In fact, only the last man, a small figure with sallow,

rodent-like features, acknowledged him at all with a wink and a touch of

his hat.  He returned the gesture with a slight nod.

     Continuing on a bit further, he came to a building much like the

others which looked to house run-down flats for the city's poor.  A

single dim light flickered in the first floor window above him, but the

rest of the structure remained lost in the darkness.

     For a moment he thought he had the wrong address.  He took a piece

of foolscap from the pocket of his frock coat and checked what he had

written there.  In the light from the window, the words were just barely

readable, and they left no doubt in his mind that he did have the right

place after all.

     He looked around.  The only person in sight, a vagrant lying against

a nearby wall, appeared to be asleep, or recovering from a drunken

night.  Satisfied no one had followed him, he nonchalantly walked up to

the front door and tried to open it.  It was locked.  Of course, he

hadn't really expected it to be open, so he wasn't particularly disappointed.

     Making his way around the rest of the building, he found the other

two doors locked also.  The ground-floor windows, surprisingly all

intact, were closed with effective latches.  This he had not expected, or

else he would not have risked coming at all.

     He stood again under the lighted window, and, gazing up at it,

wished he could know exactly what was being planned in there.

        *****

     The two men sat at opposite ends of a long battered table, with a

single candle at the table's center providing the only illumination.  A

silence had prevailed between them since the others left, several minutes

before.

     "This time we may succeed," said the older man finally.  His hair

and beard were streaked with gray, and his worn features betrayed a life

of stresses and too many failures.

     "We will succeed," the younger man corrected him.  He ran his

fingers through the dark beard which made him look somehow foreign.  His

words and gestures showed an intensity missing from the other man, but

his similar high forehead and nose showed him to be related.

     "Our last attempts failed dismally, son--"

     "But this time I handle the weapon myself.  There can be no mistakes!"

     His father pinched the bridge of his nose.  "I only hope that you

are right."

     "Of course I am right."  The younger man smiled.  "In three days'

time, the entire country will be in chaos."

(--Next Chapter--)