Read The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen for Free Online

windswept plains.
    Near the burning wreckage of the old Britannia Club, the forlorn, crumbling
graveyard stood against the magnificent vista, and Quatermain thought of all the
friends, acquaintances, lovers he had buried there.
    It was time to leave.

FIVE
London
, Albion
Museum
 
Tottenham Court Road
    Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The
driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already
drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was proof against the
downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and
down his trouser legs into his shoes.
    Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as
he called down into the cab at his fare. "Nice day for doing, eh sir?" As if
anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the
clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.
    "Yes… absolutely idyllic," said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing
on the whole street.
    The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more
than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and
comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last
few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.
    But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.
    The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where
Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being
attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened
the cab's door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. "You made good time
getting here, Mr. Quatermain."
    "Not as good as Phileas Fogg." The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and
stood in the rain, taller than Reed's umbrella. "Fellow went round the world in
eighty days."
    He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps
or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity,
cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour
simply turned the grime into muck.
    "No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir." Reed
paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and
intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella's protection for
himself, even if Quatermain didn't want it. "This way, please. Your contact is
waiting."
    Quatermain had the impression he was being watched, a sense he'd developed
from long years as a hunter and explorer. A glance over his shoulder showed him
a young man across the street who wore an overcoat and cap to keep the rain off
him. The clothing also succeeded in hiding the young mans face, making him seem
up to no good; he was clearly enduring a soaking just to catch a glimpse of
Allan Quatermain.
    Alas, he no longer had Nigel's playacting to cover him.
    "If you please, Mr. Quatermain?" Reed said, urging him along.
    They ascended the steps toward the museum. Passing between the museums stone
columns, under the ornate arches, and through the door into blessed dryness, the
two men walked with echoing, squeaking footsteps on the polished floor. Reed
snapped the umbrella shut and shook it. Rainwater running off their clothes made
the marble tiles treacherously slippery.
    Quatermain looked around the Albion's dim displays illuminated by gas lamps
that had been lit early this afternoon because of the rains gloom. He saw
proudly displayed antiquities, statues, and assorted treasures. He felt a pang,
reminded somewhat of the dreary trophies hanging in the Britannia Club.
    Brisk and officious, Reed led him directly to a wooden doorway marked NO
ADMITTANCE TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. Fumbling with a fistfull of keys, he unlocked
the door and swung it open on groaning hinges. "This way, please. It's down just
a