William Le Queux (continued 4)

“You have thought it all out then? You know she will come with the Duchess del Pineda.”

“She will be watched from the moment she enters the Palace to the moment she leaves it,” was the chief’s confident reply.

“And you say that the Duchess is quite ignorant of her intentions?” It was the Chief of the Secret Service who spoke.

“I will swear to the innocence of the Duchess, also to that of the Duke. They are simply tools. They have been made use of by a superior intelligence, by a man who has a strong hold over the Duke.”

“I wish, Mr Moreno, you were able to take us a little more into your confidence. Would it not be possible to bag the whole lot to-night?”

The Chief of the Police rubbed his hands at the thought. “Ah, that would be a fine idea. And I suppose, Mr Moreno, you have it in your power to enable us to do so?”

“Gently, gentlemen, if you please. Don’t be ungrateful. I am helping you somewhat to-night. And because I am doing this, you want to rush things,” answered the young journalist in his usual quiet way. “Now, look you, much as I desire to serve you, I have a very tender regard for my own skin.”

“Naturally,” cried the Secret Service man. And the Chief of Police echoed him.

“The secret of this project to-night has been entrusted to a good many people,” continued Moreno. “If it fails, as you promise me it will fail, two things will occur to the mind of the Chief—one that the brotherhood has been betrayed by one in their counsels, the other that your spies noticed something suspicious in the behaviour of the woman, and that she was arrested on the strength of that suspicious behaviour.”

The two men nodded their heads. They began to see the drift of his observations.

“I was at first designed to take part in this project, but the original programme was altered. Had it been adhered to, I think I could have enabled you to bag the whole lot, at any rate, most of them, and yet escaped scot free myself, of course with your co-operation.”

“We dare not ask you to disclose your plan?” insinuated the Secret Service man gently.

Moreno shook his head. “I think not. But if this coup fails, there will be another planned shortly. By that time my ideas will be perfected, and I trust I shall be able to do what you want, and escape with a whole skin. Only one member of the brotherhood will be here to-night. The others are scattered about. Suspicion would at once fall upon me if every one except myself were taken.”

“We could work that out pretty easily, could we not?” queried the Chief of Police eagerly.

“I think not,” was Moreno’s answer. “You would have got this lot out of the way, but there are a few members of the brotherhood left in London, and every man has a knife handy. I must show a clean sheet to those who remain at large. Please trust me, and I will shortly do it in my own way.”

Moreno left after cordial hand-shaking. Both the Chiefs were men of considerable astuteness, and great experience. But they agreed that there was a certain subtlety about this young man, a certain suggestion of strength and confidence, that won their admiration.

Moreno perhaps did not repose quite so much confidence in them as they did in himself.

“I hope to heaven they won’t bungle it at the last minute,” he said to himself as he walked along. “If I were dealing with the French police, I shouldn’t have a doubt.”

He walked down the Puerta del Sol, past the Grand Hotel de la Paix. He saw the tall form of Contraras enter the vestibule. He shrugged his shoulders, and a look of regret stole over his face.

“He is going to hearten her up for this night’s work, the old devil, while he stands safely outside, and looks on. Poor little woman! I wish I could save her. But how can you save a fanatic?” So ran his thoughts. “Why in the name of wonder does a woman who has got everything in the world she requires want to mix herself up with this wretched and bloodthirsty crew? She must lie on the bed she has made, and it will be a pretty hard one, I should wager.”

Moreno walked swiftly in the direction of a poor quarter of the town. He entered the humble abode of an inferior member of the Spanish Secret Service, where he doffed his working-man’s garb and assumed his ordinary clothes.

Later on, he saw Violet Hargrave, who was living close to him.

Violet seemed very restless and perturbed. “This is the great night,” she said by way of greeting. “I wonder if it will come off all right.”

“I should say there is every chance it will, unless Valerie’s nerve fails her at the last moment,” was Moreno’s diplomatic answer.

Mrs Hargrave gave a little shudder. Her pretty delicate face went a shade paler.

“I cannot help feeling glad that I wasn’t brought into it.”

Moreno bent upon her his keen glance. “And yet I should not put you down as a very tender-hearted person.”

“I don’t know that I am, or should be under certain circumstances. But I have no grudge against these people, no particular wrong to avenge. Aren’t you really glad you are out of it?”

“I suppose, in a way, I am. Still, one feels a bit of a coward in letting Valerie take all the risk. It seems taking advantage of her bravery, to snatch at the chance of avoiding all danger for oneself.”

“I shall sit up very late, on the chance of hearing the news.”

“On the contrary, I think I shall go to bed early,” said Moreno. “We shall hear nothing to-night in this distant quarter. And in the morning there will be the news, or no news at all. The Chief will let us know.”

The great Contraras, very upright and vigorous for his age, was shown into Mademoiselle Delmonte’s sitting-room. She sprang up eagerly at his entrance.

“I am so glad you have come. You are a little late, are you not? Luncheon will be served in a few moments.”

He could see she was very restless, and her cheeks were pale; there was a strange, almost unnatural brilliance in her dark eyes. Her voice was jerky.

He took both her hands in his and pressed them tenderly. “You are not afraid, Valerie?”

He was a fanatic, bold, brutal, and ruthless in his fanaticism, ready to sacrifice anything and everybody to the one absorbing idea. But at the sight of those pale cheeks, that quivering mouth, a momentary regret assailed him. He was a father, and this beautiful young woman was young enough to be his daughter.

“We ought to have had a man for this job,” he said, speaking a little hoarsely. “But you know you chose it yourself; you would not even have another associated with you.”

“I know.” She tried to laugh lightly, but there was a quaver in the laugh. “I do not regret. I am not really afraid. But I suppose every soldier on his first battlefield has inward tremors that he cannot repress. I am a soldier of the Revolution, and to-night is my first battlefield.”

“And you feel those tremors, eh?”

“Just a little, although I blush for them. But don’t let us think of this. Ah, here comes lunch.” They sat down to the meal. She was a very abstemious woman, and rarely partook of stimulants. But, in honour of Contraras’ visit, she had ordered a bottle of champagne. Under its exhilarating influence, her jangled nerves readjusted themselves, and she became her natural self. The colour returned to her cheeks.

She raised her glass and nodded to her guest.

“To the new world, born upon the ruins of the old.”

“Amen to that wish!” cried Contraras fervently, as he drank his wine in one long draught.

There was a long pause, which she broke abruptly. “I think I have told you I made my will in London last year.”

Contraras nodded. “Yes, you told me that.”

“But I did not tell you the details. I have left all my money in the hands of the Public Trustee, to divide amongst certain charities. As private fortunes go, it is a fair one—but what a small sum to go to the alleviation of this vast amount of human misery!”

“You could not have made a better use of it,” said Contraras appreciatively.

“To you, my dear friend, I have left twenty thousand pounds to devote to whatever purpose you think fit. Of course you will apply that money to the spreading of the propaganda.”

“I much appreciate your kind thought, my dear Valerie; it is just like you. But may the day be far distant when—”

She raised her hand. “We will speak no more of that, please. I wonder what will be the result of to-night?”

“Success!” cried Contraras confidently. “Success!”

A few minutes later he rose to go.

“The Duchess will call for you in her carriage. Once arrived at the Palace, keep under her wing for some time, so as to avoid suspicion. Then seize your time and opportunity. Would you like me to come round and see you before you start? But I shall look out for you at the Palace.”

For a moment she did not answer him, she was pursuing the train of her own thoughts.

“I never told you I had my fortune told by a gipsy when I was sixteen. Would you like to know what she predicted?”

“If you wish,” replied Contraras politely. He had no respect for gipsies or their prophecies.

“Ah, I see it won’t interest you. I don’t think you believe much in the spiritual side of existence. Still, I will tell it; it will not take a moment. Up to the present, it has come remarkably true. This gipsy, she was a very old woman, predicted that I should have a very hard life for some years, then would come some years of great good fortune, and then—equally great tribulation.”

Contraras smiled. “My dear child, she probably predicted precisely the same things hundreds of times to her clients. The veil of the future is not to be lifted by a wandering beggar-woman.”

“Of course, I knew you would not be impressed, or perhaps you just say it to cheer me.”

She had forgotten his question—should he come and see her again before she started for the Palace? He repeated it.

“No, my good friend, I would rather not. If all goes well, we shall meet again often. If not, we will say good-bye here. A thousand thanks for your friendship and kindness.”

Could fanaticism go further? She was thanking this hardened old schemer for his friendship and kindness—friendship and kindness that were ready to sacrifice her at any moment for his own ends.

Chapter Sixteen.

Moreno had declared to Violet Hargrave that he proposed to go to bed early, and wait till to-morrow for the news.

When he spoke that had been his original intention. But, as the evening drew on, he began to feel a certain restlessness stirring in him. Certain things were about to happen, or, as he hoped, to be frustrated. He could hardly compose himself to sleep under the unusual circumstances. He would go out, and form one of the undistinguished crowd that clustered round the Palace gates. If anything dramatic happened, he could not fail to be aware of it. The news would spread like wildfire.

On his arrival, he caught sight of a woman closely veiled standing close beside him. He recognised her at once. It was evident that Mrs Hargrave could no more endure to stay indoors than he could.

He moved up a few paces and spoke to her in English, practically their native tongue.

“The same sudden impulse seized both of us,” he whispered. “Well, it is a very orderly crowd. I don’t think we shall be pushed or knocked about. We shall enjoy the sight of the grandees arriving. By the way, it is a pity we were not sent an invitation, then we could have seen it from the inside.”

Violet Hargrave whispered back. “I simply couldn’t stay indoors. My nerves seem on edge to-night.”

“Mine are a bit out of time, too,” answered Moreno in a low voice.

And, while they were waiting, Moreno indulged in several philosophical reflections.

A curious and not ill-natured crowd was gathered round the Palace, something like the throng that gathers round a wedding. There was no harm in these good-humoured, laughing persons, mainly of the lower order. They were not envious of the people who went inside, these men in Court costume, these women of another world, daintily attired. They discussed and admired the good looks of the men, the exquisite costumes of the women.

If the Court Chamberlain had suddenly appeared, and in the name of their Majesties, bade them enter the Royal precincts in a spirit of perfect equality with the other guests, they would have been very embarrassed and, save for a few adventurous spirits, have declined the invitation. They would have felt out of place.

From what causes arose this antagonism amongst the clever extremists of the proletariat toward the more fortunate ones of the earth?

Moreno was puzzled to find a solution. Envy perhaps was the contributing cause. And yet the ordinary man who dines at a common eating-house is not always envious of the man who eats a sumptuous luncheon at the Ritz or Carlton. The middle-class prosperous professional man does not always gnash his teeth when he thinks of a nobleman, possibly his client, who has a rent roll of a hundred thousand a year.

Moreno was very just. There was a time when he had had to fare very frugally, and he had not complained. Things had improved. When the fancy took him, he would indulge in a good dinner, a bottle of champagne, and an excellent cigar. Was he hurting the toiling millions very much if he occasionally indulged in these luxuries? Were the few fortunate ones of the earth, and after all they were very few, hurting him if they indulged in them every day?

Night was slowly settling over the city. Far away from this scene of revel and display, some thousands of humble workers had eaten their frugal suppers, and were preparing for bed. If all the money that was to be spent upon this function had been shared between them, would they have been much the richer? Champagne, excellent cigars, and good dinners could not be given to every creature on God’s earth. That was an inexorable economic law, which no revolutionist could alter.

He was raised from his reveries by a light touch on his arm.

“Who are these two men?” It was Violet Hargrave who spoke. “Somehow, they look people of importance.”

Moreno recognised them at once, as they drove slowly through—the Chief of the Secret Service, the Head of the Police. He was glad that they were on the scene early. They might not have quite the perfect methods of the corresponding French organisations, but perhaps they would justify themselves before the night was over.

“I don’t know them from Adam, but, as you say, they certainly look persons of importance, especially the fat one.”

Always suspicious, he wondered if Mrs Hargrave was trying to draw him, herself knowing who they were. Anyway, she had failed. He was not to be caught by a leading question like that.

Then presently she nudged him. “Look, look, the Chief!”

Yes, it was Contraras, driving in a humble cab. His fine, lined face showed clear against the waning light.

“Wonderful man! The brains of sixty, the fire and energy of twenty!” said Moreno glibly. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of a true son of the Revolution.

Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Equipage after equipage rolled up, containing fair women and brave men. The Palace was one blaze of light. The crowd grew closer, enjoying the spectacle of the arriving guests, and it seemed a crowd that was at once good-humoured and appreciative, if at times critical.

Moreno turned to his companion. “I say, it’s a bit of a shame that you and I are not inside instead of here, eh? I think Contraras might have worked that while he was about it.”

Mrs Hargrave smiled back; she was very attracted by this black-browed young Spaniard.

“My dear friend, under the new régime, we shall all go to Court.”

“To the Court of Contraras, I suppose?”

“Something of that sort,” answered Violet, letting herself go a little. “And Madame Contraras, more aristocratic than any queen, will smile condescendingly, and the pretty daughter will turn up her nose at us.”

The conversation was getting dangerous. Mrs Hargrave must be checked in her impulsive moods, which, he honestly admitted, were very rare.

“Ah, if I could see dear old Contraras in that position I would die happy,” he exclaimed, with a splendid mendacity.

Mrs Hargrave stole a quiet glance at him.

“Yes, he is very wonderful, is he not? But I can’t honestly say I like his womenkind. They have no sympathy with his aspirations.”

As they were speaking, a very gorgeous carriage rolled up. It contained the Duchess del Pineda and Valerie Delmonte. The Duke had not accompanied them. He had pleaded indisposition, but probably prudence had dictated his absence. Anyway, if certain things happened, it would be possible for him to plead a successful alibi.

“Look, look!” cried Violet Hargrave, a little excitedly for her. “Valerie Delmonte!”

Moreno, the kindly-hearted, felt a spasm of pity as he gazed on the face of the handsome, fanatical young Frenchwoman, whom that wily old Contraras had subjugated to his evil will.

“Poor child!” he said aloud, for the benefit of his companion, “I can only hope she will not lose her nerve. It was a man’s job, but she would insist upon having it.”

There was a little lull in the procession of carriages. And then there drove up one conveying Guy Rossett and a colleague. The Ambassador had already arrived, with his wife.

Moreno stole a glance at his companion. She was heavily veiled, but he could see that her face had grown pale, that a sad look had come into her eyes.

“Our admirable young diplomatist!” whispered the young man. “Well, Madrid is not a very safe place for him.”

“But he is in no danger to-night I take it?” came back the answer in a whisper as low as his own.

“I should say not. For the present, we have left him out of our calculations; we are flying at higher game. He will hardly come within the sphere of Valerie’s operations. His Chief may—I doubt even that.”

Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Presently Moreno spoke in the same low whisper.

“You have no great affection for Mr Rossett, I take it?”

“No, I have not any great affection for Mr Rossett.”

“And yet you were once very good friends.”

Mrs Hargrave stiffened a little. “You seem to know a great deal of my private affairs. Yes, we once were very good friends. He knew my husband long before I married him. I fancy I have told you that.”

Moreno was not to be daunted by her aloof attitude. He was never wanting in enterprise.

“I should not be surprised if, at the present moment, you hated him.”

“Perhaps you are right,” was the curt answer.

Moreno indulged in a quiet inward chuckle. If she had known that Isobel Clandon was established so close to her lover, that through his adroit manipulation of affairs they were meeting every day, her hatred must have expressed itself more heartily.

Valerie Delmonte, under the wing of the unsuspecting Duchess, was now within the Palace.

She had only once before looked upon a scene approaching this, and it had been much less brilliant.

Once, early in their married life, her husband had taken her to one of the President’s receptions in Paris. It was easy, in his position, to secure the entrée for himself and wife.

She remembered that evening well. Never had she felt more humiliated. Half a dozen times kind old Monsieur Varenne had introduced her to some of his acquaintances. There was a formal bow interchanged, and nothing beyond; one and all they had sheered off. Even in a republican and democratic country, these purse-proud citizens would have nothing to do with the girl who had come from the music halls.

She recalled how, when she had reached home that night, she had burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and her kindly, elderly husband had tried to comfort her.

“Calm thyself, ma chérie, we will not go to these hateful places again. We will lead our own life.”

To-night, how different. A Court, one of the oldest in Europe, reflecting that atmosphere of pomp and state associated with long descended Royalty. The kindly young King, his British-born Queen, chatting graciously with their favoured guests. Men in resplendent uniforms and orders, great ladies of the highest Spanish nobility, what a contrast to the homely reception of the President in those far-off days!

Then she had been escorted by a very wealthy but somewhat shady financier, whose influence had not been sufficient to enable her to scale the social heights to which she had aspired.

To-night she was under the wing of a popular chaperon, in whose veins ran the proudest blood of Spain. The Duchess, acting according to instructions, introduced her to everybody she came across.

Mademoiselle Delmonte, handsome, brilliant, and vivacious, was an immediate success. This aristocratic assemblage, ignorant of her antecedents, only recognising that she was under the wing of the popular Duchess, took her at her real valuation.

Being a woman, she was naturally pleased with her momentary success. But she was sensible enough to know to what she owed it. If these people who were flattering her now had known of her lowly origin, how she had graduated through the circus and the music hall to the possession of wealth, they would have turned their backs on her, as the purse-proud parvenus had done in the democratic salons of the French President.

These bitter reflections rather tended to harden than soften her resolution. To-night she was an avenging angel, bent upon the task of making these insolent people atone for the insults heaped upon the lowly-born.

Once in her triumphant progress she came near to Contraras, who was standing alone, surveying the brilliant scene with his keen, deep-set eyes.

She disengaged herself from the arm of her companion, a handsome young man of some standing in Spanish Society.

“Excuse me a moment. I see an old friend, to whom I must say a few words.”

“What do you think of it all?” she whispered, as she held out her hand.

“What I have always thought of such spectacles as these,” he whispered back. “These besotted creatures feast and dance and make merry, without a thought of their oppressed and toiling fellow-creatures.” He spoke intensely, in the most bitter spirit of his gloomy fanaticism.

She could not linger, “My nerves are in perfect order,” she assured him as she turned away. He smiled kindly at her as she passed on.

The amiable and innocent Duchess had performed the duties of chaperon so well, had introduced her to so many people, that it was a long time before Valerie could shake herself free. It was a very crowded assemblage. If she could once break away, she would be free to roam where she pleased.

The moment came at last, close upon midnight. She was alone and mistress of her own movements. Her thoughts were no longer distracted by the idle chatter of some companion forced upon her.

Slowly, she edged her way towards the Royal circle. Progress was a little difficult, but at last she stood within a few feet of the King and Queen. She stood for a few moments, perhaps summoning up her courage. Then her hand stole towards her pocket.

Before she could reach it, a little cordon was formed round her, a cordon of six men in ordinary evening dress. The hand of one of the men gripped hers, and held it in a grasp of iron.

“Come quietly, mademoiselle,” whispered a voice in her ear. “We have followed you round all the evening, we fancied there was something suspicious about you. We may, of course, be mistaken, but in these troublous times we have to be very careful. We will take you to a private room, and have you searched. Of course, if nothing is found upon you, you will go free, and we will make you handsome amends.”

Valerie gave a little choking sob. The gipsy’s prophesy had come true—several years of hard life, a few years of good fortune, and then great tribulation.

“I came here with the Duchess del Pineda,” she said in a broken voice, hardly knowing what she was saying. “Do you dare to suspect—”

It was the Head of the Police who held her wrist in that iron grasp. He spoke in a suave voice.

“Mademoiselle, we always suspect in our profession. For the Duchess del Pineda I have the highest respect. Will you consent to come quietly? If we are in the wrong, you have nothing to fear.”

She turned with them without a word. She had failed miserably. The upholders of law and order had scored signally over the scattered and imperfect organisation of the brotherhood.

Between them, she walked through the long, brilliantly-lit rooms. The Chief of Police tucked her arm under his, keeping a tight hold on her wrist. The other five men accompanied them. There was nothing in the general attitude to suggest that she was not a very charming woman being escorted by a bevy of admirers.

Contraras was standing by the door as the procession passed out. Agitated as she was, she saw him, and flashed at him an agonised glance.

He flashed back at her a glance equally eloquent. He knew the Chief of Police by sight, and he understood what had happened. Poor little Valerie had failed! They would take her to some room, and search her. In her pocket they would find those cunning little bombs that, once launched, would have sent tyrants and oppressors hurling into space, and proclaimed the dawn of the new era.

Poor little Valerie! His eyes grew misty. As she had failed, it would have been better if he had left her alone. If ever he felt remorse in his life, he felt it that night.

His first impulse was to leave the Palace at once. But wiser thoughts prevailed. The Chief of Police had recognised him, he was sure. If he left immediately, it might give cause for suspicion.

Valerie had failed. For the moment the Cause had suffered a set-back. But his resolution was still undaunted, his brain still active. Because he had failed to-day, it did not follow that he would not be successful to-morrow.

He sought out the Duchess del Pineda, who was, as usual, surrounded by a group of chattering friends.

“Good evening, Duchess. What has become of our young friend, Mademoiselle Delmonte?”

“I really cannot tell you. She broke away from me a long time ago. She has been a tremendous success, I can assure you. I hope she intends to make a long stay in Madrid. She will be most popular.”

“I really cannot tell you. I know nothing of her plans,” answered Contraras in his grave, quiet tones. “As I told the Duke, I met her in France and England, where she appeared to move in the best circles.”

“Naturally,” said the innocent Duchess. Nobody would suspect the highly respected Contraras of telling a deliberate lie.

Outside the Palace, the crowd had thinned, but Moreno and Violet Hargrave still waited. Midnight had struck and all was quiet. There were no signs that heralded the happening of a tragedy. A few belated arrivals passed through to the Palace. The crowd began to melt away.

And then there was a little stir. A carriage drove up outside the Palace doors. Two men and a woman stepped into it, the woman was in evening dress.

The carriage passed the two watchers. Mrs Hargrave peered into the slowly-moving vehicle.

“Valerie Delmonte,” she whispered excitedly. “There is a man sitting beside her, one of those two men I noticed driving in—don’t you remember I said they looked people of importance, and you said you did not know them from Adam. What does it mean? Valerie alone with those men?”

“It looks as if the coup had failed,” replied Moreno quietly. “I should say that Valerie has been caught, and those two men are members of the police.”

Mrs Hargrave grew a little hysterical. “Thank God, it was not myself,” she added, after a pause. “I am glad it was not you.”

Moreno was about to reply when another carriage drove through, the occupant of which was Contraras. His tall form seemed huddled up; he was evidently in a state of extreme dejection.

Moreno tucked Mrs Hargrave’s arm under his own.

“Come along! Evidently the coup has failed; the police have been one too many for us. Valerie Delmonte going away with those two men, poor old Contraras huddled up in that carriage, his attitude expressing that all is lost, at any rate, for the moment! We have nothing to wait for. We shall hear all about it to-morrow.”

They walked along arm in arm, both occupied with their own thoughts. Mrs Hargrave broke the long silence.

“He is a wonderful man. If he is dejected to-night, he will be full of energy and vigour to-morrow.” Moreno agreed. “Yes, he will think of more coups. I suppose the next one will be the removal of Mr Rossett.”

Violet made no answer immediately. Then, presently she said. “I fancy he is considered a rather dangerous person from our point of view.” Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “And yet I fancy his removal would not greatly hasten the new era, do you? He is really a quite insignificant person. If Valerie had brought it off to-night, well and good—but I must confess these minor developments don’t interest me greatly. Do they interest you?”

“A little, I think,” answered Mrs Hargrave, in a somewhat faint voice.

Moreno looked at her steadfastly. Her nerves were a bit out of order to-night. That long vigil outside the Palace had told on them—that waiting for the crash of the bombs which Valerie Delmonte had carried in her pocket, the bombs which now had been appropriated by the Chief of Police.

He gave her arm a tender pressure. “I believe at bottom you are really a womanly woman. The end justifies the means, of course, but some of the means are very bloodthirsty, don’t you think?”

“I thought so to-night, when I was waiting to hear the crash of those devilish, cunning little bombs, the latest invention of science, as our good old Contraras assures us.”

Moreno pulled himself up; perhaps he had been a little too frank. But he knew that the photographed letter always gave him the whip-hand of Violet Hargrave.

“Still, we must not be squeamish. Revolutions are not made with rose-water, and you must break eggs to make omelettes.”

“Absolutely true.” Mrs Hargrave, looking provokingly pretty under her veil, sighed a soft assent to these platitudes. He fancied her arm gave a responsive pressure to his.

When he went to bed that night, Moreno was disturbed with remorseful thoughts of Valerie Delmonte. If the Chief of Police had found those bombs in her pocket, it was he who had told that somewhat slow-moving official he would find them there.

Then he comforted himself. If he had betrayed Valerie, he had prevented her from hurling to destruction a dozen or more innocent people. His conscience was quite clear. If she had been a very ugly woman, instead of a very pretty one, perhaps his conscience might not have been troubled at all.

“I didn’t think much of that Chief of Police at first,” he murmured drowsily, as he turned on his pillow. “But he seems to have managed it all right. Still, on the whole, I would rather deal with Scotland Yard, or the Sûreté in Paris.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Lord Saxham and his daughter had left Ticehurst Park. They were in their town house in Belgrave Square. They were neither of them very fond of London.

The Earl, in his youth and middle age, had experienced all the fleeting joys of the Metropolis. Mary, after the experience of her unfortunate love-affair, had definitely resolved that she would retire into a convent and devote herself to good works as soon as her father died.

Belgrave Square was even a little duller than Ticehurst Park. They were in the midst of a crowd that had forgotten them.

Lord Saxham was, to put it vulgarly, a back number, and was quite out of the modern whirl. Lady Mary, during her brief season, had fallen head over ears in love with the handsome young Guardsman, and had buried her heart in his grave.

The only thing that had drawn them up from the sylvan shades of Ticehurst Park was this—they wanted to be near Greatorex, that they could know what was happening to Guy at first hand.

The eldest son of the house. Viscount Ticehurst, dropped in occasionally, and deigned to spare them a few moments of his valuable time. As a matter of fact, at the present moment he was occupied with a particularly pretty chorus-girl, whom he was half inclined to marry.

Mary was fond of both her brothers, but she recognised the difference in them. Eric was as weak as water and destitute of brains. He was capable of marrying any chorus-girl on the sly, and then rushing her down home and presenting her as his wife, to the terrible consternation of his poor old father, who thought that people should always marry in their own class.

Guy was different—there was just a little bit of common sense in him. He had fallen violently in love with Isobel Clandon—a girl not quite in his own world, from the Earl’s point of view—but a sweet and lovable girl, and above all a lady.

And Guy had waited for the parental consent, which had been wrung under somewhat false pretences. But he had been content to wait until his future wife would be received under proper auspices. He would not rush her down and take his father by storm, as Ticehurst would do when the time came for him to present his chorus-girl to a justly offended parent.

Father and daughter sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the house in Belgrave Square.

Very terribly did Lady Mary miss her beautiful gardens, her flowers, her dogs, her aviary of little songsters. She was essentially a country girl. She hated any city, with its cramped and narrow streets. Even Paris had no attractions for her. Vienna and Berlin left her cold.

“You have seen Greatorex this morning, father?” she questioned when the servants had withdrawn.

Lord Saxham frowned. He had realised, in this his latest visit to the Metropolis, that he was a back number. He remembered the years long ago when he was the most golden of the gilded youth. Then his name was one to conjure with. He led the revels; if it pleased him, he painted the town red. Now, except for a few ancient cronies, nobody recognised him.

“Yes, I saw Greatorex,” he answered gloomily. “He was always as close as wax. He is closer than ever. He comes of an infernally close family. That family has never been anything great.” He was getting into his explosive vein. “Always underlings and jackals—always content to serve.”

“What did he say about Guy?” asked Mary softly.

“Only that he was quite happy and well. He did vouchsafe to volunteer the information that some great anarchist coup had failed.”

“Well, that was about as much as you could expect,” said Mary in her quiet, gentle tones. “He is not going to give information to everybody.”

“To everybody?” spluttered the Earl, in his most fiery mood. “Am I everybody? I have supported this Government through thick and thin. I have backed them up through everything. Why do they withhold their confidence from me, at this important moment?”

Lady Mary used all her finesse. She knew too well why Greatorex did not trust him. He was an open sieve. All news would filter through him in five minutes, at all his clubs, to the first acquaintance he met.

“You must not blame Greatorex, dear; he carries a very heavy burden. He dare not give an incautious confidence, drop a random word.”

“But why this reticence to me, of all people?” thundered Lord Saxham, in his most indignant tones. “Am I not the soul of discretion? Should I betray a confidence?”

Mary made no answer. She knew her father well. Privately he was the soul of honour. He would not betray a confidence wilfully. But he was loose of speech, and he was quite vain. He would drop a few hints, perhaps unconsciously, from which attentive listeners might gather much.

She let the stormy ebullition pass. Then she spoke.

“I wish we could hear some really authentic news of dear old Guy.”

The Earl grunted.

“You hear daily from Isobel?”

“Of course, but Isobel is a woman. She tells me what she is allowed to know. Because she is a woman, Guy and Moreno keep everything from her. They make out the path is strewn with roses. They will not tell her the truth, for fear of frightening her.”

“Then where are you going to get your information from?” asked the Earl querulously.

There was a long pause. When she spoke, a faint colour dyed Lady Mary’s cheek.

“I wonder if that young barrister would know anything; I almost forget his name—you remember, Isobel’s cousin who came down to Ticehurst and arranged her journey to Spain. Yes, I remember, Maurice Farquhar. He is a bosom friend of that Spanish man, Moreno, who, I fancy, is trying his best to defeat the anarchists.”

The Earl was, fortunately, very unobservant to-day.

“Yes, I remember him quite well, a perfectly decent sort of young fellow. A rather forlorn hope, eh?”

The flush had died away from Mary’s cheek. She had regained her self-control. She spoke quite calmly.

“Yes, I agree, but drowning people catch at a straw. Let me ask him to dinner, and find out if he knows anything.”

Lord Saxham was certainly in his most benignant mood.

“By all means. He might be useful.”

Lady Mary wrote a note to Farquhar, addressed to his chambers in the Temple. It was a somewhat formal letter—when she put pen to paper, Mary was always formal—inviting him to dine in Belgrave Square.

Farquhar’s first impulse was to refuse. He had no wish to mingle with the aristocracy on unequal terms. When he became Lord Chancellor, it would be a different matter.

Then he thought of Lady Mary’s winsome appearance, and he altered his mind. He sent a note accepting the invitation. But of course he knew why he was being asked. They wanted to know if he could give any reliable information about Guy Rossett.

He presented himself at Belgrave Square on the tick of the clock. Not for him the mauvais quart d’heure consecrated to meaningless conversation in the drawing-room.

Lord Saxham shook him kindly by the hand. Lady Mary was graciousness itself. Could she ever be anything but kind, even if there was, at the back, a little subtle feminine diplomacy.

It was a party of three, waited on in solemn state by the butler and two footmen. There was not even a fourth to make matters even. Farquhar smiled inwardly. These two guileless persons, father and daughter, must have desired his company exceedingly! Well, he would learn all about it later on.

The servants had withdrawn. The men smoked. Lady Mary did not leave the room. It was an informal party. Farquhar puffed leisurely at his cigar. He was awaiting developments.

Saxham opened the ball. He was a most undisciplined person. He was always like a bull in a china shop, charging with blind fury.

“It’s about Guy, we’re awfully anxious, you know,” he said in his loud, resonant tones. “I wonder if you can help us at all. My daughter and Isobel tell me you are a great friend of Moreno.”

Beneath his somewhat pachydermatous exterior; Farquhar had a certain vein of sensitiveness. He was now sure of what he had suspected. He had been asked to dine for the purposes of being pumped for the information he could or could not give them. Lord Saxham, in his blunt, vulgar fashion, had so unsuccessfully masked his hospitality. Then he caught Lady Mary’s pleading, almost shamefaced glance.

“I can quite guess what is in your mind, Mr Farquhar, but I beg you to forgive our anxiety. We are very pleased to see you here for your own sake. If you can help us with Guy, we shall be doubly pleased.”

She leaned across, and said, in a whisper that did not reach Lord Saxham’s ears, dulled with age:

“My father will, unfortunately, always take the lead, but he is not always happy in his way of expressing himself.”

The rather stiff-backed young lawyer forgot his momentary resentment under the kind words of this charming young woman who could so graciously pour oil on the troubled waters.

“Please, Lady Mary, tell me in what way I can serve you.” There was no stiffness in his tones.

Lord Saxham had subsided now. He gathered, in a dim sort of way, that he had put his foot in it, for about the thousandth time in his long career. He was going to leave it all to his capable daughter.

Mary drew her chair closer to the guest. Lord Saxham, for the moment, was out of the picture. Besides, he was nodding over his second glass of port. It was better so, he was now incapable of mischief.

Mary put her cards frankly on the table.

“As I told you just now, we are very pleased to see you for yourself, as a cousin of dear Isobel, at least I am certainly very pleased.” A faint colour suffused her cheek.

Farquhar bowed. No barrister can blush, but into his rather cold eyes there came a softer light which might be taken to express emotion.

“Lady Mary, I am certain you are not a woman who would ever say anything you did not mean.”

“Of course, there was an ulterior motive,” continued Mary, with her usual frankness. The flush on her cheek had not quite died away; it had rather been revived by a compliment that she felt was meant to be sincere.

“There was an ulterior motive, as I have candidly admitted. We are very anxious about Guy. Greatorex will tell us nothing, my father has been to him this morning, and he keeps his mouth shut. We hear nothing from Guy, of course, he does not wish to alarm us. Isobel writes short, chatty letters; naturally Guy does not tell her anything; she knows no more than we do. The question is, Mr Farquhar, do you know anything? You can easily understand how anxious we are.”

Farquhar smoked on steadily. It was some time before he spoke. Lord Saxham was now slumbering peacefully after his heavy dinner and his third glass of port. He looked just a little contemptuously at the somnolent figure. At Lord Saxham’s age, he expected to be Lord Chancellor, alert and vigorous.

When he spoke, he did not answer her question. Rather, he pursued the train of his own thoughts.

“It seems to me. Lady Mary,” he said, speaking very softly, so that he should not disturb the slumbers of his host, “that in a measure you bear upon your shoulders—very capable shoulders, I will admit—the entire burden of your family.” Mary protested feebly. “Oh, no, don’t think that for a moment. My father is very vigorous as a rule. Eric is quite a nice boy, just a little wild, perhaps. And Guy has got lots of grit; he will make good yet. I cannot thank Isobel enough for teaching us how cowardly we were for wanting to have him recalled.”

“Isobel has tons of grit,” said Farquhar shortly. “She comes from a fighting line.”

“Yes, Isobel, as you say, has tons of grit.” Lady Mary looked at him curiously. “You are very fond of your cousin, are you not, Mr Farquhar?”

“I am very fond of Isobel,” said the young barrister quietly. “We were brought up as children together. I was a few years her senior. I used to carry her about as a little child.”

Mary looked at him again, and for a second time a faint flush dyed her fair cheek.

“Will you think it very impertinent of me, Mr Farquhar, if I suggest that you were very much in love with your pretty cousin?”

Farquhar shook his head. “I don’t deny it for a moment. I was very much in love with Isobel. I always wanted her for my wife, but the consideration of ways and means prevented. When I did ask her, I learned that she had accepted your brother—”

“And you are still in love with her?” questioned Mary, a little eagerly.

“It is no use being in love with a girl who is betrothed to another man. It is one of those vain dreams that a sensible man dismisses. Isobel Clandon is to me now a dear cousin, a good friend.” Somehow, Lady Mary looked relieved. She spoke lightly.

“You will get over it, and one day you will marry. And when you are Lord Chancellor, your wife will be the first female subject in the kingdom.”

“And Isobel will be the wife of an Ambassador,” said Farquhar. “We shall run each other close, shall we not?”

Mary laughed. “Oh, Guy will never have stamina enough to become an Ambassador. When he comes into dear old Aunt Henrietta’s money, he will throw it all over, and lead his pleasant old idle life. I know Guy too well.”

“Don’t you think Isobel will put grit into him?”

“Isobel is a loving woman. She will always see eye to eye with Guy. Whatever he determines, she will acquiesce in.”

Farquhar sighed. Ambition was always with him the dominating note. He regretted its absence in others.

“A pity,” he said. “With your family influence, he might go far.”

“He doesn’t want to go far, Mr Farquhar,” she whispered. She pointed at the slumbering figure of Lord Saxham. “My father has plenty of brains; if he had worked, he might have been Prime Minister, or very near it. In the Rossett family, there is a certain amount of grit, but not quite enough to bring them to the foremost place.”

Farquhar leaned across the table. This was certainly one of the most charming women he had ever met.

“I say, Lady Mary, what a pity you are not a man. If you had been, I am sure you would have put the Rossett family in their right place.” He cast a cautious glance at the still slumbering host.

Lady Mary smiled pleasantly. She was not ill-pleased with the genuine compliment.

“Yes, perhaps, if I had been born a man. I should certainly have been better than Eric, perhaps a shade better than Guy.” She broke off suddenly. “But it is idle to talk of these things. I am a woman, and must be contented with my lot, my humble sphere. Now, can you tell me anything of my brother?”

“You want me to tell you the truth, and you will not be afraid to hear it?”

“No, I shall not be afraid.” She spoke very bravely, but he noticed that her hands were trembling.

“I had a letter from Moreno this morning. He tells me that the design against your brother has temporarily dropped into abeyance. They had a very great coup on—that has failed. He has reason to suspect that they will now turn their attention to Mr Rossett.”

The tears coursed slowly down Mary’s face. The Earl slumbered on peacefully.

Then she raised her head. Her eyes flashed. She looked angrily at her sleeping father.

“Oh, our poor Guy. And it is his fault,”—she pointed at the somnolent Earl—“his fault entirely. He wanted to separate him from Isobel, because he thought she was not good enough for him. He went to Greatorex, and with his influence he got this post at Madrid—and he has sent him to his death.” Farquhar felt very sympathetic. No man can very properly appreciate his successful rival. But he was forced to admit that there was something in Guy Rossett that appealed alike to men and women.

“Now listen, Lady Mary! Moreno tells me a lot, because to a certain extent I have been in it from the beginning. I won’t bore you with details. Anyway, Moreno says he is quite certain he can save your brother. Perhaps Moreno may be a little too cocksure, he is a very vain sort of fellow. He goes so far as to hint that he might require my assistance.”

Mary looked puzzled. “Your assistance! But where do you come in, in this awful mix-up?”

“It is perhaps a little difficult to explain.” It was one of the few occasions in his life on which the self-possessed young barrister had felt embarrassed. “It is, perhaps, a little difficult to explain,” he repeated. “Moreno and I are very old friends. He was one night in my chambers. He extracted a promise from me that, if he called upon me, I would help your brother.”

Mary shot at him a swift and penetrating glance. “I can understand, Mr Farquhar, that you and Mr Moreno are old friends, that you owe many a good turn to one another. But my brother is nothing to you. Why should you put yourself out of the way for him?”

Farquhar temporised. “One sometimes gives promises rather rashly, Lady Mary.”

There was a long pause before the woman spoke.

“I think I can understand,” she said. “You gave that promise not because you cared for my brother, but because you wanted to help Isobel Clandon.”

Farquhar did not beat about the bush. “Yes, I wanted to help Isobel. Naturally, I do not love your brother, but she loves him. And her happiness is my first consideration.”

Mary looked at him with her soft, kindly eyes. “I think of all the lovers I have heard or read of, you are the truest,” she said, “and also the kindliest. If our positions had been reversed, I rather doubt if I could have done that.”

But Farquhar shook his head. “Oh, you are one of God’s good women. In any situation you would act a thousand times better than I should.”

Suddenly the somnolent Earl woke up, in full possession of his faculties.

“Well, Farquhar, what do you know about Guy?” He took the matter up from the point where it had been left in abeyance.

Farquhar explained patiently that, in his opinion, Guy Rossett was in a position of considerable danger.

Naturally, at this point, Lord Saxham went off at a violent tangent.

“Then why the devil doesn’t Greatorex recall him, as I have begged him to do. Good heavens! I have been supporting this wretched Government through thick and thin. Can’t they grant me this little favour? My poor boy! He doesn’t want their infernal promotion. He will inherit a big fortune from his great-aunt. He can snap his fingers at Greatorex and the rest of them.”

Suddenly he began to sob, and buried his head in his hands. “My poor murdered boy,” he moaned. “And Greatorex sent him to his death.”

Farquhar smoked on stolidly. He did not feel greatly attracted towards his host. Lady Mary shot a somewhat contemptuous glance at her penitent parent, who was seeking to throw the blame on Greatorex.

“Pay no attention to him,” she whispered across the table. “The Foreign Office is not to blame. He got Guy transferred abroad in order to separate him from Isobel. I have told you.”

Farquhar understood and nodded. He had already come to the conclusion that Lord Saxham was a very poor and weak creature—not a good specimen of his order. How had he become possessed of such a daughter, so gentle, so high-minded? There must have been some virility on the female side of the family.

He drove back to his chambers in a rather exhilarated frame of mind. Lady Mary was very charming. He had quite got over that first feeling that he was to be exploited for the benefit of the Rossett family. Mary had put that all right, in her gentle, persuasive way. She had expressly laid emphasis on the fact that she, at any rate, was pleased to welcome him for himself.

He dismissed his taxi, and climbed up the steep stairs to his suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. To his surprise, the light in the hall was burning.

What had happened? He went into the dining-room, a blaze of electric light.

Stretched on the sofa, puffing at a long cigar, was Andres Moreno, awaiting his arrival.

“The devil!” cried Farquhar shortly, sharply, and decisively.

Moreno waved a genial hand.

“Not exactly, old man, but one of his ambassadors. I say, I suppose you can give me a shake-down.”

“Of course, but why are you here? Why are you not in Spain?”

“All will be unfolded in good time, my boy. But what about a drink? I could do with one.”

“You know where the things are. Surely you could have helped yourself?” said Farquhar.

“Never care to drink alone, old man. By the way, I see you are in evening togs. Have you been dining with the aristocracy?”

“You’ve just hit it,” replied Farquhar, as he went to the sideboard and fetched out a decanter of whiskey. “I have been dining in Belgrave Square with the Earl of Saxham and his daughter. Lady Mary Rossett.”

“Good heavens, this might be called a coincidence,” cried Moreno, as he drained the refreshing draught offered to him.

Farquhar was rather impatient at any exhibition of humour. He frowned a little.

“Now, Moreno, out with it. What has brought you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you have not come all this long journey for nothing.”

But Moreno was still in high spirits that were not to be abruptly quenched.

“What a splendid Lord Chancellor you will make, always with both eyes on the practical, intolerant of anything that disturbs the even course of justice. Perfect embodiment of the legal mind. À votre santé, mon ami!” He drained his glass.

Farquhar looked at him critically. “You’re a bit of an ass to-night, aren’t you?”

“Not at all, most noble Festus. Never was I saner than I am at the present hour. Well, perhaps just at the moment I am suffering a little from swollen head. I, the poor Fleet Street journalist—you remember, Farquhar, how they used to despise me in the early days—have outwitted the keenest brains of the anarchists. I have made abortive their great coup.”

“I know,” said Farquhar generously. “My hearty congratulations, old man. But still, you have not come all this way to tell me that. You have something behind.”

Moreno’s manner changed at once. He sat down in an easy chair and became the solemn and grave personage who had important interests at stake.

“You remember an interview in these chambers a little time ago, when you gave me a certain promise?”

Farquhar remembered the incident well.

“Yes, I gave you a certain promise. You have come to remind me of it?”

“Are you overwhelmed with briefs?”

“I cannot exactly say I am overwhelmed with them, but I have enough to keep me going.”

“I see,” said Moreno quietly. He had cast aside his gay and chaffing mood; he was quite serious. “Can you depute those to somebody?”

“If it were imperative, I could.”

Moreno rose and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Good! Then I claim your promise. Pack your bag to-morrow morning and come with me to Spain. I am going to outwit them again. I might do it single-handed, but your assistance will be invaluable. Will you come?”

“It is to help Guy Rossett?”

“It is to help Isobel Clandon through Guy Rossett. I will explain everything as we travel together to-morrow.”

“I adhere to my promise,” said Farquhar. “I will make all my arrangements in the morning. I shall be at your disposal after twelve. How long will you want me for?”

“A week at the outside.”

Moreno stifled a yawn. In spite of his vigorous constitution, he was very tired.

“Let us turn in, old man. I feel as if I could sleep the clock round.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Contraras paid a flying visit to London. It was a secret visit, that is to say he stayed in an obscure hotel in the East of London, not venturing to his house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue. His wife and daughter believed him to be still in Spain, from where he wrote letters to them at irregular intervals. He was far too busy to attend closely to domestic correspondence.

Moreover, like many great reformers, he had little in common with his family. His wife openly sneered at his doctrines; privately she thought he was a hypocrite who lacked the courage to practise what he preached, to lead the simple life which he was inculcating upon others. Their only child fully endorsed the mother’s sentiments.

Moreover, she was in love with a young man who had been attracted to her by the report of her father’s wealth. He was a poor cadet of an old and aristocratic family, and conservative to the backbone. The slightest word of this somewhat empty-headed young man outweighed the most profound arguments of the intellectual Contraras.

She was very dissatisfied with her parent, with what she considered his nonsensical theories of perfect equality. Miss Contraras was quite content to take the world as she found it. She did not trouble her head about the woes of the humbler classes. As long as she could live softly and have plenty of new frocks, she was happy. Why should people with brains trouble to keep those who could not keep themselves?

Contraras came over to be present at a special meeting of the English section of the brotherhood, held, as usual, at Maceda’s restaurant. The great coup had failed, but he was still undaunted, still full of resolution.

There were only about half a dozen choice spirits present. Maceda, for this special occasion, had delegated to his manager the task of looking after his comfortable little establishment.

Both Luçue and the restaurant keeper greeted their Chief with a sorrowful air. Maceda voiced their mutual sentiments.

“The iron must have entered into your soul, comrade. So near to success, and then to fail. And then, the fate of poor Valerie, so bright, so clever, so full of enthusiasm for the cause!”

The leader’s voice broke a little as he answered: “Alas, poor Valerie—a fate worse than death. How she will eat out that brave heart of hers in their loathsome dungeons!”

He passed his hand across his brow, as if in that action he was trying to brush away a painful reminiscence. But the next moment he was again the man of action, of indomitable resolve.

“I think never again will I sanction the use of women in enterprises of this character, however willing they may be to take the risk and pay the penalty of failure. And now to our immediate business. How are things progressing in this country?”

Both Luçue and Maceda, but especially the former, who had only the business of the propaganda to attend to, gave him a most encouraging report.

There was great dissatisfaction amongst the masses, a growing hatred of the class that neither toils nor spins. Many of the most influential leaders were in secret sympathy with their doctrines, and only waited for a favourable moment to come out into the open.

The fanatical Contraras rubbed his hands; his brow cleared. He had forgotten Valerie Delmonte, that too responsive instrument upon whose warped feelings he had so skilfully played. She was only a martyr in a righteous cause.

He listened eagerly to the details with which Luçue supplied him. He could see already the dawn of that universal revolution which, if it came to pass, would claim him for one of the earliest victims.

And then, when Luçue had finished, the elder man spoke a little impatiently.

“But why did we fail in Madrid? Have you suspicions of anybody? After all, the secret was very carefully guarded. How many of us knew?” Luçue shrugged his shoulders. “Is it much use going into that? We might all suspect each other. Moreno was over here a short time ago. We conversed together on the subject.”

“Ah, Moreno was over here, was he?” The Chief’s brows knitted; he spoke in a suspicious voice. “Do you know on what business?”

“Purely private affairs, I understand. Something connected with his journalistic profession. But we were discussing the matter, and he suggested a very reasonable theory.”

“And what was that?” interrupted Contraras. “His opinion was, to start with, that women should never be employed in enterprises of this character, because they had not sufficient nerve. His theory is that there was no treachery from our side, because if there had been they would never have allowed her to get inside the Palace, they would have arrested her at the entrance.”

“It seems feasible,” interrupted the Chief. “He thinks that Valerie got nervous and overstrung, that she detached herself too early from her chaperon, that the numerous spies who were watching got suspicious of her movements, and arrested her on the off-chance.”

Contraras nodded his head, as he added, “It might be so, and it is quite true that women lose their heads more quickly than men, when things are not running exactly in the beaten track.”

“Of course, as you may or may not know, our friend Moreno, although a very excellent fellow, is one of the vainest of men. He boasted that if you had given him the job he would have done it successfully. And I have sufficient faith in him to believe he would.”

Luçue spoke quite warmly. It was not a little to the journalist’s credit that he had succeeded in persuading this rather suspicious man both of his ability and his bona fides.

Contraras reflected for a few moments. “I have great confidence in your judgment, Luçue. You have known this man for a long time, eh?”

“For six or seven years, I should say.”

It was perfectly true. Moreno had been coquetting with Luçue and the brotherhood, and half a dozen other things, for quite a period.

“And you trust him implicitly? He is making much money?”

“A little more than he used. But he tells me he is miserably paid, that the capitalists he works for suck his brains to swell their own enormous profits.”

Contraras smiled. “He has brains, and he is poorly paid—in a word, he enriches the drones. He seems just our man, Luçue.”

“I am sure of it,” answered the other warmly.

“Good! I shall be seeing him in Madrid very shortly. We will try his mettle. He shall have the management of the next coup.”

“And that, I take it, is the removal of that busy marplot, Guy Rossett?”

“Yes,” said Contraras shortly. “But keep it to yourself and Maceda as much as possible. I won’t have too many people in the know this time.”

Luçue and Maceda promised to observe silence. The other members of the fraternity had drawn respectfully aside while the three chiefs conversed together. Jaques, otherwise Mr Jackson, arrived presently, and was informed of the conversation. He was always to be trusted. He was as great an enthusiast as Contraras himself.

“How is my little Violet getting on?” he asked.

“So far she has done good quiet work,” was the chief’s answer. “Of course, she never had the grit of poor Valerie, nor, I think, the enthusiasm.”

“Possibly, possibly,” agreed Jaques, who was very fond of his pretty protégée. “But still, if she is a bit slow, she is certainly very sure. And, although we must all make sacrifices in the great cause when we are called upon, I am glad to think she is not in the position of poor Valerie. Ah, what a fate!”

The cunning old rogue, who was making money hand over fist, sighed in real or pretended sorrow for the unhappy young Frenchwoman whose ardent sympathies had landed her in such a plight. Jaques had given plenty of money to the cause, but, like Contraras, he had never greatly risked his precious skin.

The next day Contraras returned to Madrid. He could safely leave Jaques and Luçue to look after affairs in England.

After the failure of the great coup, there had been a little re-shuffling. Somoza, the educated young fisherman, a burning and a shining light in the brotherhood, and Alvedero were stationed at Fonterrabia. Zorrilta was superintending affairs at Barcelona.

Contraras, the wealthy and magnificent, still maintained his quarters in the palatial hotel in the Plaza de Canovas. Moreno and Violet Hargrave were in Madrid also, but they had lodgings in a humbler quarter of the city.

Moreno often smiled when he thought what humbug it all was, this profession of democracy and equality. Because they were, comparatively speaking, humble members of the brotherhood, they were stowed away in poky lodgings. Contraras had a suite of rooms at the best hotel in the city, and went occasionally to Court.

“What a gigantic farce,” he thought. “As if you could alter the primeval instincts of human nature by a carefully adjusted system of labels. And, as for tyranny and oppression, if I were a Spanish citizen, I would rather live under the rule of Alfonso than that of Contraras. If the old man got into the saddle, there would be plenty of shooting. He would make short work of those who didn’t agree with him, without the formality of a trial.”

Contraras was a wary old schemer. He had many visitors at his hotel—men of light and leading in the city, the aristocratic connections of his wife. But he never allowed his anarchist subordinates to come near him. He was much too clever for that. He went to them.

On the evening of the day on which he returned to Madrid, he met Moreno and Violet Hargrave at the journalist’s modest lodgings, by appointment.

Moreno, who was always fond of indulging in humorous jokes, would have liked to apologise to the wealthy Contraras for receiving him in such humble surroundings, with some caustic allusion to the time when all men would be equal.

But he forbore. Contraras was too serious a person to indulge in humour himself, or tolerate it in others. Besides, Moreno had special reasons for ingratiating himself with his Chief, whom he privately stigmatised as a “silly old visionary,” and whose chances against the organised forces of law and order he was not prepared to back.

Contraras was very gracious to his two subordinates. Whatever his defects, he had the true note of Spanish courtesy.

He turned first to Violet Hargrave. “I have just come from London, where I met our dear friend Jaques. He inquired most tenderly after you, and sent through me his kindest remembrances.”

Violet looked very pleased. If there was a tender spot in her heart, it was for the old moneylender, who had been a father to her. She flushed a little; quite a soft light came into her eyes.

“That was very sweet of him. He really has a heart of gold, dear old Juan,” she said softly.

Moreno looked at her curiously. He had not got to the bottom of her yet. A hardened adventuress, pure and simple—that was how he had first judged her. But her kindly mention of Jaques, “an old shark of the first water,” as the young journalist classed him in his own mind, revealed something that he had not credited her with. Had she, after all, a capacity for emotion, did she possess any real womanly instincts?

Contraras next addressed himself to Moreno.

“I also met in London our comrade Luçue, the man who introduced you to the brotherhood.”

“Ah, what a great man!” cried Moreno, with the fervour of a new and enthusiastic recruit. “The only man, in my opinion, who would ever be worthy to wear your mantle, if ever it should drop from your shoulders. May that day be far distant!” he added piously.

Contraras, ever pleased with a little judicious flattery, became more amiable than ever. The glance he bent upon the young journalist was almost a benevolent one.

“Luçue speaks very highly of you, and I have always had the greatest confidence in his judgment. He tells me, and, as he did not say it in confidence, I can repeat it, you expressed your opinion that we made a mistake in allowing Valerie to undertake the great coup. You added that if you had been entrusted with it, you would have brought it off.”

The question was a supreme test of Moreno’s modesty, but he was not taken aback. He turned the situation lightly, and with his usual assurance.

“I am certain I should have done,” he said composedly.

Contraras frowned a little. He had been very fond of Valerie Delmonte; he rather resented any criticism of her.

“Why are you so sure, comrade Moreno? Valerie was very clever, very subtle. Are you more so?”

The young man looked at his chief calmly. “I daresay she was much more clever, much more subtle than I am, but she lacked my nerve.”

“Ah, there is something in that,” agreed the older man. “A woman may have the brains of a man, I agree, that is to say, an exceptional woman, but come to a crucial moment, and the brain will be dominated by the nerves. It is the penalty of the sex.”

The Chief ruminated over these remarks a few seconds before he spoke again.

“Well, Moreno, I am going to give you a chance to prove your mettle. You know the next item on our programme is the removal of Guy Rossett.” Moreno nodded. He had shot a side glance at Violet Hargrave, but she had betrayed no sign of emotion. And yet, in the flat at Mount Street, she had alluded to the project in a spirit of exultation.

“It was the first item on the programme, and was shelved in favour of the later one. What do you mean precisely by the term ‘removal’?” Contraras shrugged his shoulders. “That I have not yet quite decided upon. The first thing is to get hold of him.”

“That is quite easy,” said Moreno in his usual quiet way.

Contraras looked at him sharply. “You speak very confidently, Moreno. You appreciate the difficulties in the way? To get him either out of the Embassy or his flat will be a tough job. He is well guarded, you may depend.”

“I appreciate all the difficulties, Contraras. To get him out of the Embassy is well nigh impossible. To get him out of the flat is the easier job of the two. Well, I will undertake to bring him to any place you like.”

“Your methods?” queried Contraras, in the same sharp tone.

Moreno bowed with great courtesy to his titular Chief.

“Pardon me for declining to answer that question at present. I am a very new member of the brotherhood, I have my spurs to win, I have to justify your confidence in me, or I should rather say the confidence of Luçue, for you know next to nothing of me. I want to show you that I am a little more clever, a little more subtle than perhaps you imagine. When I deliver him to you, I will possibly explain my methods, not before.”

“You will undertake to deliver him to us?” questioned Contraras, still speaking a little doubtfully. He was, however, very much impressed by the young man’s confident manner.

“On any day, at any hour you like to name,” was the reassuring reply.

“I will settle the details later on,” said Contraras, his voice betraying a note of agitation. “Anyway, I depute you and Violet Hargrave to see that this thing is carried out.”

Moreno looked at the woman. “You will be my assistant in this?” he asked.

Her voice was very low. “Of course, if the Chief wishes it.”

Contraras spoke in his most authoritative tones. “You have no choice. You took a solemn oath to obey the orders of the Chiefs of the organisation. As your Chief, I call upon you to do this.”

Violet Hargrave bowed her head submissively. She remembered there was a terrible penalty attached to hesitation or disobedience. She also recalled the fate of Valerie Delmonte, and her face went white.

Moreno thought to himself, “Infernal old scoundrel, he doesn’t care whom he sacrifices. And in the meanwhile he is living in luxury, and getting us poor devils to run all the risk.”

Aloud he said: “And what will you do with Guy Rossett when I deliver him to you?”

Contraras reflected before he spoke. “As I told you just now, I have not quite made up my mind.” He paused, and struck an imposing attitude. “You know, Moreno, it has always been my policy to strike at the head and heart of this effete system. The humbler members, mere tools of their superiors—well, I would be inclined to show them mercy.”

“I know that has always been your generous inclination,” replied Moreno, masking his loathing of this fanatical creature. “Well, I should say Rossett was quite a tool, very poor game.”

“I am inclined to agree with you. Still, he is active and dangerous, and a menace to the Cause. He knows too much about many of us.”

“Quite true, quite true,” said Moreno. He had an object in humouring this venerable visionary. He wanted to know what was at the back of his mind, what dark scheme he was working out in his subtle brain!

Contraras spoke in a meditative voice. “These Englishmen are strange people; they have a great respect for their word.”

“It is one of their peculiarities,” admitted Moreno drily.

“If he would take a solemn oath to resign his post, and withdraw himself from any further opposition to the brotherhood, I think I would accept that, and let him go free.”

“And that, I am afraid, is just the thing you will never induce an Englishman to do,” said Moreno bluntly. “I know the type too well. Better death than dishonour, all that sort of thing, you know. It’s in their blood.”

Contraras smiled oddly. “In that case, I think there is only one course. It is regrettable, it is repugnant to me. But the safety of the brotherhood is my first consideration.”

Moreno had learned all he wanted to know. He knew now what was working in that fanatical brain.

“I understand,” he said quietly. He added with the most apparent sincerity. “The safety of the brotherhood must always be the first thought. I quite agree.”

Shortly after, Contraras left to return to his luxurious hotel. He parted from the two with many expressions of good-will. He was disposed to confirm Luçue’s high opinion of Moreno. There was a confident bearing about the young man that impressed him. He was sure that he would prove a valuable recruit to the brotherhood.

They were left alone—the man quite young, the woman still comparatively youthful.

Moreno spoke first. “We have been assigned a post of honour, but it is also a post of danger. Don’t you think so?”

Mrs Hargrave shivered. “When I remember poor Valerie Delmonte, I must confess I don’t feel very brave. But you spoke very confidently of being able to snare Rossett.”

“I am quite confident of being able to do that.”

“I suppose you won’t tell me why you are so confident of the fact?”

Moreno shook his head. “No, I certainly won’t. In this business, never let your left hand know what your right hand doeth.”

She shot at him a rather coquettish glance, which thrilled him just a little. She was certainly a very pretty and fascinating woman.

“I am to be trusted, really, you know,” she pleaded. “I can be as close as wax.”

“I will tell you some day,” he answered. He thought, as he spoke, the day might be a very long one.

“But you will tell Contraras and everybody then,” she pouted. “I thought we had been such pails.”

It suddenly dawned upon him that this adventuress, as he had always looked upon her, was falling in love with him. He was not quite certain that he was not falling in love a little bit with her. If he were only certain that in her were the makings of a good woman! But he would require great proofs of that.

He broke a rather embarrassed silence.

“Well, now you will get your revenge on Guy Rossett.”

“I am not quite so certain that I want it now.” She spoke in a very low voice.

“But this is a very different mood from that of a certain night at Mount Street.”

“I know, I know.” Violet spoke a little wildly. “I was very bitter then. Things seemed changed somehow.”

“You know that Guy Rossett has to be ‘removed,’ in obedience to the orders of our revered chief?”

“I know, I know.” Suddenly she burst into bitter sobbing. Presently she lifted her tear-stained face. “You think I am a very bad woman, don’t you? I am not really, only hard and embittered with my early life. If I could only find somebody who really cared for me!”

It was a clear invitation. Moreno took her hand in his; he could not disguise from himself that he was attracted. But, at the same time, he did not lose his head. Could he trust her—would she be useful for his purpose?

“Suppose that I said I cared?”

Violet sobbed afresh. “No, no, it is impossible. You would never believe in me, you could never trust me.”

And then Moreno leaned forward and spoke to her, very gravely.

“I think, before you leave, we must have a little conversation together. When it is finished, I will tell you whether I trust you or not.”

Chapter Nineteen.

It was a long time before Moreno spoke. It was evident that, in her present mood, Violet Hargrave was perfectly prepared to be made love to. It was not the first time it had occurred to him that this woman of mixed nationality like himself was more than usually attracted by him.

But although he was one of the vainest men living in certain respects, notably in the high estimate in which he always held his own capacity and mental qualities, still in other matters he was fairly modest. Every man can get some woman to fall in love with him, or, at any rate, to profess affection. Some day he would come across a woman whom he could impress sufficiently to justify him in asking her to marry him. For the time would come when, like other men, even of the most roving disposition, he would want to say good-bye to adventure and settle down quietly.

As regards his personal appearance, he was quite a just and dispassionate critic. He could look in the glass and sum up the general verdict that would be passed by the opposite sex. In appearance he was rather short and squat. His features, somewhat irregular, were redeemed from plainness by a pair of very brilliant dark eyes, and a perfect set of strong white teeth.

Still, he had not the makings of a Don Juan in him; he was not the sort of man whose path was likely to be strewn with conquests; not the type of man, like Guy Rossett, for instance, on whom most women looked with a kindly eye, even on their first acquaintance.

Under ordinary circumstances, Violet’s attitude could hardly be misinterpreted. The misty eyes raised appealingly to his, the soft inflections in her voice said as plainly as words could speak that here was a woman fully ready to respond at the first hint from him.

But he was very cautious; he felt he must proceed warily. He must never forget that this woman had been, more or less, an adventuress from her girlhood, the associate of desperate and callous men, who hesitated at nothing in the attainment of their objects. Not so very long ago, she had exulted in the prospect of obtaining a terrible revenge, through others, on the man she had once professed to love.

Why had she turned, so suddenly, as it seemed, from this vengeance, had almost said that she no longer desired revenge? In an ordinary woman, the explanation would have been simple. Rossett now no longer aroused her love or hate because she had found a new lover in Moreno himself.

Always severe to himself in these purely personal matters, he asked himself the candid question if a woman so attractive as she undoubtedly was could turn from a man of Rossett’s physical advantages to himself?

Years ago, he had loved devotedly a simple little girl with no pretensions to beauty or great charm, possessing only average intelligence. He had loved her for her sweet nature, her good qualities. And she had loved him in return.

But this was an entirely different matter. That poor little dead girl, still a very tender memory, had never had any other lover but himself. Violet Hargrave, with her powers of fascination, her blonde prettiness, her quick mentality, must have had many men at her feet.

Did the foreign element in him attract the foreign element in her? It might be so, but he could not be sure of that. In many things he was more Spanish in thought and feeling than English, but she was more English than Spanish in everything, of that he was convinced.

Had he been a few years younger, had he enjoyed less experience in life, have thought less over social problems, anarchist doctrines might have appealed to him very strongly. He was sure they would never appeal to her, the English strain in her was too strong.

When he spoke, he put a very leading question.

“I have often wondered whether you are really greatly interested in the Cause? Whether the methods we have to adopt are not somewhat repugnant to you?”

He looked at her very steadfastly. He judged her to be an admirable actress, but he noticed she did not meet his glance. Perhaps if she was really attracted by him, as she seemed to be, it was not so easy to act.

She spoke a little nervously. “What on earth has made you think that? Why should I be here if I were not sincere? I joined the organisation of my own free will. Juan Jaques, who was my sponsor, explained everything very clearly to me.”

Moreno spoke lightly. “You have been comfortably off for many years, and you are more English than foreign. Anarchist principles don’t take deep root in English soil.”

“My father was a revolutionary at heart, although not an active one,” she said hastily. “Of course, I don’t suppose my mother thought about such things.”

Moreno was too polite to say he did not believe in that little fiction about her father. This derelict parent might not have had a very great love for the social institutions from which he did not derive much benefit. But from a natural dissatisfaction with his own lot to professed anarchy was a long step.

“It runs in the blood naturally, then, that I can understand. Still, it puzzles me. Women don’t think very seriously about these matters—or, at any rate, only a very few of them. And women of means are hardly likely to be keen on upsetting a world in which they are fairly comfortable, in favour of a new dispensation, the results of which are highly problematical.”

She fenced with him a little longer. “Why are you so sure I was comfortably off?” she queried.

“I think you must have forgotten what you told me. Your husband made money through the good offices of Jaques, and that money became yours. That flat in Mount Street was not run on a small income.”

She became a little agitated under his rather ruthless cross-examination and suggestions.

“The money that was left me was not enough to support me comfortably. I had to turn to other means of support.”

“You would not care to tell me what they were?” Of course he had heard rumours about that Mount Street establishment, that the host and hostess were suspiciously lucky at cards. The man, at any rate, had always suffered from a shady reputation.

She became more agitated. “Yes, it is quite simple. I have been well-paid for my services by Jaques.”

“Then it was simply money that induced you to join the brotherhood?”

“Money, combined with my natural sympathy with their objects.”

Moreno appeared to accept the explanation. Jaques seemed, then, to have paid her handsomely for her services. But evidently he had not paid her enough, or she would not have trafficked with Guy Rossett and sold him important secrets.

It was some little time before he spoke again, and then he played his trump card.

He left the personal question altogether, and spoke of the affairs of the brotherhood.

“There must be traitors amongst us,” he said presently, “although I do not think they are to be found in Spain—so many things have leaked out.”

“Yes.” She spoke very quickly. “There was the failure of poor Valerie Delmonte. Do you think there was treachery there?”

“I rather doubt it,” answered Moreno easily. “My theory has always been that she drew suspicion on herself by her inexperience, her amateurish methods, her suspicious movements when she got inside the Palace. If the job had been entrusted to me, with my steady nerves, I think I should have been successful. I boasted as much to Contraras, and I suppose that is the reason he has given me this job.”

Violet was silent. Moreno went on smoothly.

“But with regard to that affair of Guy Rossett, the information he got which, for the moment, frustrated our plans—that was clearly the work of a traitor. That happened just before I came on the scene, but Luçue has told me all about it.”

He was looking at her very steadfastly. She was trying to avoid his gaze, but those dark, brilliant eyes of his drew her lighter ones with a certain mesmeric power.

She was not acting well to-night, he thought. There crept into her troubled glance a shadow of fear. She tried to speak lightly, indifferently, but her voice broke and faltered, in spite of her efforts at self-control.

“It seems like it. Have you any idea of who the traitor was?”

Moreno rose and walked over to the little shabby sofa, typical furniture of the mean lodgings, where she sat. He flung at her the direct challenge.

“It is not a question of having an idea. I know.” She laughed hysterically; she hardly knew what she was saying. “You think you know, perhaps. Probably you have been led to suspect the wrong person.”

“Not when I have seen the actual memoranda, not when I have a photograph of that memoranda in my possession, to show, if necessary, to Contraras.”

For a moment she seemed paralysed. All the colour left her cheeks. She could only clasp her hands together and moan piteously.

Moreno spoke quite gently. “Violet Hargrave, you haven’t an ounce of fight left in you. Give in and own you sold those secrets to Guy Rossett. I expect he paid a handsome sum for them—and probably because you sold them, you lost your lover.”

She burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and threw herself at his feet. She had not the heroic spirit of Valerie Delmonte. She was only a very commonplace adventuress, with a well-defined streak of cowardice in her. Like Madame Du Barri, she would have gone shrieking to her death.

“Are you going to denounce me?” she cried wildly.

Moreno was a kind-hearted man. To an extent he despised her, although he was half in love with her. But he could not but feel pitiful at the spectacle of her abject terror.

“That depends,” he said quietly. “It is quite possible we may drive a bargain.”

Reassured by those conciliatory words, the woman speedily recovered her self-control. She rose from her kneeling attitude, brushed the tears from her eyes, adjusted her disordered hair. As long as she escaped with life, she would consent to any bargain.

What a mercy she had not been found out by Contraras, or some equally implacable and fanatical member of the brotherhood! In that case, her shrift would have been very short. This black-browed young man, born of a Spanish father and an English mother, had this much of the English strain in him, that he leaned to the side of mercy.

“How did you find out? How did you suspect?” were her first words when she had recovered herself.

“What first led me to suspect. I cannot quite explain—it was a sort of intuition. When I once suspected, the rest was easy.”

“It was Guy Rossett who gave me away?” she cried, and an angry gleam came into her eyes.

Moreno looked at her a little contemptuously.

“And you have known this man well, and loved him! Are you not a shrewder judge of human nature than to harbour such a suspicion? Why, Rossett is just that dogged type of Englishman who would rather be put to death than betray a confidence.”

Violet looked a little ashamed. “But if not from him, how did you obtain your information?”

“That is my affair. When I have quite assured myself that I can trust you, I may tell you. It suffices that I hold in my possession the photograph of that document. By the way, you lost your head when you gave yourself away like that, because your handwriting is known to several. Why did you not dictate your notes to Rossett and let him take them down? Then you might never have been found out.”

“I know I was a fool,” answered Mrs Hargrave bitterly. “I suppose all criminals make mistakes at times. I was terribly hard up at the time; I was in desperate want of money. I pitched a plausible tale to Guy, which I believe he swallowed at the time.”

“Ah!” said Moreno. Then it was not on account of this transaction that Rossett had broken off his relations with the pretty widow. The cause was no doubt to be sought in Isobel Clandon.

“I pretended that a Spaniard whom I had known in my youth was ready to turn traitor for a handsome consideration. He had confided these notes to me, and I had taken them down from his dictation. Of course, I ought to have done as you said. I was so eager for the money that I did not stop to think.”

“And you are quite sure that Rossett did not suspect you of being a member of the brotherhood?”

“Positive. He is not naturally a suspicious man, not like yourself, for instance. I pretended that this man, the imaginary man, was an old friend of my father’s, that he hated the whole business and wanted to get out of it.”

Moreno pondered a little. In spite of her physical attraction for him, she was a pretty bad character on her own admissions. She had owned her great obligations to Jaques, who, rascal that he was, had been her benefactor. And yet she was ready to sell Jaques and the Cause he held so dear at heart for ready money. Was it possible a woman with this unscrupulous and predatory temperament could ever become a reformed character? And, if so, was he a likely man to bring about the miracle? Passionate love might work wonders, but was she not a little past the age of passionate love?

“Let us come to the point,” he said abruptly. “I take it you no longer desire what we politely term the ‘removal’ of Guy Rossett.”

“Certainly not. I don’t know that I ever really desired it.”

Moreno raised his hand. “Don’t forget that night at the flat in Mount Street.”

“I know, I remember perfectly. I gave you a very bad impression of myself. I was angry, humiliated, bitterly jealous of a younger woman who had taken him from me.”

Moreno thought he understood. “And the Spanish side came uppermost then. You could have run a dagger into the pair of them at the moment, and perhaps after you had done it, sat down and wept because you had killed the man. I don’t suppose you would have shed a tear over the woman—she would have deserved her fate.”

Violet was recovering herself fast. The colour had come back into her cheeks. She looked at him admiringly.

“You seem to know something of my delightful sex,” she said, with a faint smile. Then, after a pause, she added, “And you want to drive a bargain with me, don’t you, in return for not denouncing me?”

Moreno assented. “You are quite right. You say you now don’t desire the removal of Rossett. To be quite frank, no more do I.”

She looked at him sharply out of her tear-dimmed eyes, red and swollen with the violent weeping of a few seconds ago.

“But why do you wish to spare Guy Rossett? You say you are a true son of the Revolution.”

“I am,” replied Moreno composedly. “I am with certain reservations.” He felt he could not trust her too implicitly yet. “When they attack the Heads, the great ones of the earth, I am in the heartiest sympathy with them—that is the way to obtain our ends. But I draw the line at making martyrs of the small fry, the mere instruments, the humble tools of the despotic system. I think it brings justly deserved odium on us. To remove an inoffensive person like Rossett is worse than a crime, it is a blunder. If the great Revolution is coming, how can a feeble person like him stop its impetuous course?”

Violet Hargrave listened attentively. When was he going to suggest the terms of the bargain?

“Will you help me to save young Rossett? It is the price of my silence. You can do nothing against me. Whatever innuendos or suggestions you might make, if such occur to you, would not weigh a moment against the damning evidence in my possession. They would only regard it as the frantic action of a guilty woman, trying to save herself from their vengeance.”