THE MALEFACTOR by E. Phillips Oppenheim CONTENTS BOOK I Chapter I. A Society Scandal II. Outside the Pale III. A Student of Character IV. A Delicate Mission V. The Gospel of Hate VI. “Hast Thou Found Me, O Mine Enemy?” VII. Lord of the Manor VIII. The Heart of a Child IX. The Sword of Damocles X. A Forlorn Hope XI. Professor Sinclair’s Dancing Academy XII. Mephistopheles on a Steamer XIII. A Cockney Conspirator XIV. The Moth and the Candle XV. “Devil Take the Hindmost” XVI. The Hidden Hand BOOK II I. “Mr. Wingrave, From America” II. The Shadow of a Fear III. Juliet Asks Questions IV. Lady Ruth’s Last Card V. Guardian and Ward VI. Ghosts of Dead Things. VII. Spreading the Net VIII. In the Toils IX. The Indiscretion of the Marchioness X. “I am Misanthropos, and Hate Mankind” XI. Juliet Gains Experience XII. Nemesis at Work XIII. Richardson Tries Again XIV. “It Was an Accident” XV. Aynesworth Plans a Love Story XVI. A Deed of Gift XVII. For Pity’s Sake XVIII. A Dream of Paradise XIX. The Awakening XX. Revenge is--Bitter XXI. The Way of Peace XXII. “Love Shall Make all Things New” BOOK I A SOCIETY SCANDAL Tall and burly, with features and skin hardened by exposure to the sun and winds of many climates, he looked like a man ready to face all hardships, equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the clothes and habits of civilization falling away from him, the former to be replaced by the stern, unlovely outfit of the war correspondent who plays the game. They crowded round him in the club smoking room, for these were his last few minutes. They had dined him, toasted him, and the club loving cup had been drained to his success and his safe return. For Lovell was a popular member of this very Bohemian gathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few hours’ notice, to represent one of the greatest of English dailies. A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking. His name was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories--a novelist in embryo. “What I envy you most, Lovell,” he declared, “is your escape from the deadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me that we live the life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or we bore ourselves, and we sleep--and all the rest of the world does the same. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis. The storms which shake humanity break over other countries. What is there left to us of life? Civilization ministers too easily to our needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a tired race.”