About half-past five, just as the first cold rays of the chilly spring dawn cast a ghastly blue light on the dormant figures around me, deadening the yellow flame of the lamp which was burning itself out, I was roused from my torpor by a light rap at the outside door. In the office all was quiet, but for the heavy and rhythmic snores of the weary comrades, and wondering who could claim admittance at such an unearthly hour, I rose with a shiver and opened the door. To my surprise I found myself face to face with Bonafede.
Since that bitter January day when Bonafede and his companions had emerged from the London fog and made their unexpected entrance on the scene of the Tocsin, I had not seen very much of him, though we had never quite lost sight of one another, and I frequently heard his news through mutual friends. As I have already stated, Gnecco and Bonafede had retired to lodgings in the Italian quarter in the unsavoury neighbourhood of Saffron Hill. They had a little money, but only enough to last for two or three weeks. Gnecco had a few valuables in the shape of a gold watch and chain, a pearl breast-pin, and a fur-lined coat, and he soon had recourse to my friendly help to dispose of these articles to the best advantage with a pawnbroker, and on the proceeds, eked out by some small help which he received from his family, he managed to rub along, and he and his mandolin were soon familiar features at the office. But with Bonafede the case was different. He was a man of too active and independent a character to be long idle. He was by profession an engineer, and in Italy, before his career had been interrupted by his political activity, he had held an important post on the Italian railways. But for many years his life had been a stirring one, and he had learned to turn his hand to whatever offered, and had in turn worked as a dock labourer, a sailor before the mast, a gilder employed in church decorations, a house-decorator in a lunatic asylum and a cutter-out of military trousers at Marseilles, a warehouse porter and a navvy. Whatever job turned up he accepted; if it was work at which he had no experience he would look up some comrade in that line and get from him a few hints, and this, supplemented by reading up particulars in some trade encyclopaedia at a public library, enabled him to accomplish his task satisfactorily. He had hardly been in London a fortnight when he looked about him for work, and, nothing better offering, he engaged himself as washer-up at one of Veglio's many restaurants. After six weeks he was rescued from the uncongenial drudgery of scullion by a comrade, a fellow-Calabrian, who earned a good living as decorator of West-end cafés, and who took on Bonafede to assist him in frescoing a ceiling at the Trocadero, not, however, before the latter had laid the foundations of a lega di resistenza between the Italians employed in restaurant kitchens. At the end of a month the ceiling was painted, and Bonafede parted company with his compatriot, pocketing £10, plus his keep whilst the job lasted. One of his first steps was to visit me at the office of the Tocsin and arrange for the printing of an Italian pamphlet and of a booklet of revolutionary songs, the production of Gnecco, which were to be smuggled into Italy for distribution. The cost of paper and carriage of these works ran into the better part of £3. With the remaining cash in his pocket, Bonafede went to look up old friends and comrades in the French and Italian quarters. A's wife was expecting her confinement, B needed an outfit in order to enter on a job as waiter which he had secured at a club; C had been out of work for three months and had five small mites to feed and clothe, and so forth. At the end of this expedition rather less than 15s. remained in his pocket, and once more he sought employment. This time he got taken on by a contractor who asphalted the London streets, a work done entirely by Italians. Here he remained for nearly two months, during which time he organised the men into a union and induced them to strike for better conditions. The men won their point, and returned to work on the condition that the agitator who had got up the strike should be dismissed, and Bonafede left of his own accord, unwilling to cause loss to the men by prolonging the struggle. After a few weeks' enforced idleness, during which he was lost sight of by the comrades, he reappeared one evening at a group meeting held at our office, and informed us that he was taken on as electrician at the Monico.
Ten days had now passed since I last saw him, and my expression was eloquent of my amazement at his unexpected appearance.
"You are surprised at my coming at such an unusual hour, Comrade," he began with his strong Calabrian accent; "but you will understand when I tell you that ever since yesterday evening I have been awaiting an opportunity to get round here without being followed by my guardian angels of Scotland Yard. Gnecco told me that you were passing the night in the office, and so I seized on a favourable moment and came." He stopped, glanced round the room, walked up to the bench on which the two Italians were sleeping the sleep of the just, and having satisfied himself that no one could overhear us he explained the motive of his visit to me.
"You doubtless know that Jean Matthieu, suspected of complicity in the P.... bomb explosions, has been hiding in London for some time past." I nodded assent: he had even been pointed out to me one evening by Giannoli at a meeting in the East End.
"Well, since yesterday we have the certainty that the police are on his track, that they are aware of his whereabouts. It has become absolutely necessary for him to leave London without further delay—within the next twenty-four hours. Everything is arranged. The police will be watching the Continental trains, so he will go for the present to Leicester, and stay with a comrade who has a French wife, and who will pass him off as his wife's uncle. From there we hope, within a week or so to get him off to America; but all this requires money: the least that we can give him is twenty pounds. I had five by me, left with me to make use of for the Cause, a few French comrades have handed me over another seven. But we are still in need of eight pounds to make up the necessary sum. Could you let us have it?"
The last days of the month always found me at the end of my resources. I had but two pounds in my purse. "What a pity," I exclaimed, "that you could not let me know yesterday! Today is Sunday; it will be impossible for me to get at any money. Raymond is certain only to have a pound or two on him, if he has as much; the Bank is closed. I have some jewellery by me on which I could easily raise ten or twelve pounds, but the pawn-shops are not open on Sundays. What am I to do? Can you not wait until tomorrow?"
Bonafede explained that every minute was of consequence: Matthieu must leave at once or he would inevitably be arrested. We both remained silent, hesitating, for a few minutes. At last he spoke: "Madame Combrisson has the money by her, I am sure, but she will never give it. You say, however, you have some jewellery that you would be willing to pledge: perhaps with that as security she would advance us the money. Anyhow we can but try."
It was arranged that I should go home for my valuables and repair to the house of the Combrissons, where, Bonafede informed me, Matthieu was at that moment concealed.
"But do you think he is safe there?" I inquired.