William Le Queux (continued 5)

He thought it wise to rub this in. He did not believe she was very clever, but she was cunning. He wanted to divert her from any idea of attempting to readjust the situation to her own advantage.

“You show me very plainly you don’t trust me, by that somewhat unnecessary warning,” she said a little bitterly. She was hardened enough, heaven knows, but the distrust of the man she had grown to care for hurt her more than she liked to admit.

“I am not quite a fool,” she added. “You have the whip-hand of me, I admit frankly. If I thought to match myself against you, and bluff it out, I recognise I have not a dog’s chance. Yes, I am willing to help you to save Guy Rossett. But I would like you to tell me why you want so particularly to save him.”

But Moreno was not going to satisfy her curiosity. He gave her one of his reasons.

“Because I hate and loathe unnecessary bloodshed,” was his answer.

There was a long pause, during which Violet’s mind worked rapidly.

“Are you very sure in your own mind how you are going to save him?” she asked presently. “I mean, so that we can go scot free.”

Self would always be the predominating note, he thought. Well, perhaps that was natural.

He tapped his forehead significantly.

“I have pretty well worked it out here; there are just a few details to be filled in. With regard to our own personal safety, I feel pretty confident I shall be unsuspected. As for you, I will guarantee it. I will see you every day, as my plans develop.”

Violet rose to say good night. There was genuine admiration in her glance, as she held out her hand.

“I believe you are a very wonderful man,” she said, in a tone of conviction.

Moreno smiled, well pleased with the delicate flattery. He always had a kindly feeling towards anybody who praised his mental qualities.

He saw her to the door. As they parted, she lifted up her face.

“You would not care to kiss a woman of my type—bad, selfish and unscrupulous as you know me to be?” she said boldly.

For a second he hesitated. Then he kissed her lightly on her pale cheek. He could not bring himself yet to touch her lips.

“Anyway, you are going to do a good thing now,” he said, as she passed out.

Chapter Twenty.

During these hot summer days, poor Isobel lived in alternate fits of hope and despair.

Guy visited her every day. He always seemed very cheerful, full of optimism. The forces of law and order must prevail; these mad anarchists, well organised as they were, and led by a most subtle brain, would be defeated very shortly. Once the Heads were taken, the movement would suffer a speedy eclipse.

But at times it seemed to her quick woman’s ears that there was a false note in his cheerful tones, that he was not so certain of the ultimate result as he pretended to be.

Moreno came to see her every day too. She had conceived a strong liking for the black-browed young journalist. Moreover, she had great faith in him.

Guy, of course, was her king amongst men. But she was not so hopelessly in love that she could not distinguish between the mental qualities of the two. Guy was very intelligent; he could snatch at the hints of others, and shape his course of conduct on them.

But Moreno had a subtle and penetrating intellect, a touch of genius. And he combined inspiration with prudence.

If Guy talked cheerfully when he was with her, her fears and doubts revived on his departure. Could he look all round and accurately weigh the chances?

When Moreno told her to cheer up, and promised that all would be well, she felt fortified. There was a sureness, a quiet power about the man that raised her drooping spirits.

“You are sure that you will beat them, you are sure you will save Guy?” she had asked him one day, when he had paid her a brief visit.

He spoke very deliberately. “I have outwitted them once before.” He looked a little gloomy as he spoke. It went to his kind heart to recall that on that occasion he had been compelled to sacrifice that charming young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte. “I shall outwit them again, believe me.”

His tone was very confident, Isobel thought. “I am sure you will lay your plans very well, Mr Moreno, but there is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“The cup will be carried to the lip this time without a falter.” He spoke with his usual assurance.

“Guy always speaks cheerfully too,” said Isobel in her simple, straightforward way. “But I am always doubtful when he leaves me.”

“Mr Rossett does not know what is in my mind, Miss Clandon. And I dare not tell him, for reasons of my own. An incautious confidence might utterly frustrate my plans. I have many helping me, but I have close at hand a man who is going to be my ablest lieutenant. Strange to say, you know that man well.”

Isobel lifted up to him startled eyes. “You bewilder me. I know so few people.”

“It will surprise you to know that your cousin, Maurice Farquhar, is in Madrid at the present moment and waiting to receive my instructions.”

“Maurice Farquhar in Madrid,” she repeated. “But why, but why?”

“Because I wanted to have a clear-brained, resolute Englishman at my right hand when the supreme moment came. I can’t tell you everything. I daren’t tell you much. Would you like to see your cousin? I can manage it easily.”

“Oh, I would love to,” replied Isobel promptly, speaking according to the dictates of her open, generous nature. Then she suddenly remembered that Guy had expressed a certain jealousy of her cousin. “But perhaps at the moment it might not be prudent. I am here incognita, in a rather difficult situation. Later on, perhaps.”

From those few halting phrases Moreno guessed accurately enough what was passing in her mind. She had a sincere affection, for her cousin, who came over here to assist her at the greatest personal inconvenience, but she would not see him, in case his visit might give offence to her lover. It is ever thus that self-sacrifice in love is rewarded.

“I quite understand,” he said. “Well, Farquhar is a white man, a man in a thousand. I wrung a promise from him some time ago that he would come over here to help me to save Mr Rossett. You can guess why he gave me that promise.”

“Yes,” answered Isobel in a low voice. “I can guess why he gave that promise. He wanted to help me. You cannot tell how mean I felt. Oh, I think I will risk it. Please ask him to come and see me.”

Moreno shook his head. “No, better perhaps not to risk it. Farquhar is content to do good by stealth. We cannot be quite sure of the view the other gentleman might take of it, if it came to his ears.”

Isobel felt a frightful coward, but she was relieved by Moreno’s words. Guy was very impetuous, and terribly jealous. She could not afford to rouse his suspicions. He left her feeling a little miserable and self-reproachful. Why could not men take a broad-minded view of things? Even if a girl were engaged, it did not follow that she should not be allowed to have a faithful friend.

She had grown very weary of Madrid. She hated the place and the people, under these most unhappy circumstances.

The good-natured Mrs Godwin had done her best to amuse her. She had taken her to the Museo del Prado, and pointed out to her the masterpieces of Velazquez, Murillo, Ribera, and other great masters. She had conducted her down the animated plaza of the Puerta del Sol. She had shown her the view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. They were too late for the Carnivals, and to a bull-fight Isobel would not go.

Moreno betook himself to the quarters of Farquhar. He found the self-contained young barrister stretched on a sofa, reading a French novel.

Farquhar was already a bit tired of it. On reflection, he was not quite certain if he had not been a little foolish in giving that promise. He had rushed over to Spain to help a man whose only claim to consideration lay in the fact that he had taken away from him the woman he wanted for his wife.

Then he thought of the charming Lady Mary, her warm praise and flattering words. When he got back to England and recounted his exploits to her, he was sure he would receive a very warm welcome. Farquhar threw down his book, and lighted a cigar. “Well, my good old friend, things seem devilish slow just now. Is anything going to happen shortly?”

Moreno nodded. “Things will happen the evening after to-morrow. Curb your impatience till then.”

“You have got it all cut and dried, then?”

“I think so. To-morrow morning I will take you to my excellent friend, the Chief of Police, and tell him that you represent me. We will spend an hour or two afterwards in discussing our plans. I have just come from Miss Clandon.”

“Ah,” said Farquhar, with affected carelessness—that name had still power to thrill him in spite of Lady Mary. “Did you find her quite well?”

“Perfectly, so far as her health is concerned, but naturally full of doubts and fears. I told her you were here; she was, of course, greatly surprised. She expressed a wish to see you.” This, of course, was not the strict truth, but Moreno always wanted to make everybody feel happy and comfortable.

A pleased expression stole over the man’s face. “Oh, she said that, did she?”

Moreno did not answer the question directly.

“I pointed out to her that, in my opinion, such a meeting might be extremely dangerous, and that it is essential you should lie very low.”

Farquhar accepted the glib explanation. Moreno had one of the greatest qualities of a diplomatist, that he could impress nearly everybody with his sincerity.

Next morning the two men interviewed the Chief of Police, or rather the Chief of Police, by appointment, interviewed them at the journalist’s modest lodgings. In the course of that interview many things were explained at length.

Moreno, always cautious, always on the look out for accidents, stood by the window, keeping a vigilant eye on passers-by. Farquhar and the Chief sat at the far end of the room.

Suddenly he espied the tall form of Contraras nearing the house. He bundled his guests into his bedroom. “The old devil! I had a suspicion he might turn up. It is quite safe here. If I give a loud whistle, get under the bed.”

But Contraras did not pay a long visit; he did not even sit down. He had only strolled round to ascertain that things were going right. Moreno, resolutely avoiding details, assured him that everything was in train. On the evening after to-morrow Guy Rossett would be delivered into the hands of the brotherhood, to be dealt with as they thought fit.

Contraras left well pleased. Moreno was certainly a great acquisition to the organisation. When he was well out of sight the two men were brought out of the bedroom.

The Chief of Police shook his fist vindictively in the direction of the vanished figure.

“I was itching to take the old scoundrel straight away, Mr Moreno,” he remarked.

The journalist smiled. “Impetuosity never pays, señor. You could have proved nothing if you had. A most respectable old gentleman, highly connected, through his wife, with some of the best families in the country, pays me a visit to inquire after my health, or perhaps to ask me to dinner at his hotel. You would not have made much out of it.”

The Chief cooled down immediately under this sensible speech. “You are a very wonderful man, Mr Moreno. You never allow yourself to be carried away by your feelings.”

He turned with his gracious foreign manner to Farquhar.

“I understand, sir, you are an old and trusted friend. I have no doubt that you have the same faith in his judgment that I have.”

On the afternoon of that same day Moreno went to see Violet Hargrave. He found her restless and agitated.

“You are sure that it will take place to-morrow night?” was her first question.

“I am as near sure as can be. Unless a miracle happens he will be brought up for judgment before the brotherhood,” was the answer.

Violet shuddered; her face went pale. “I have never been at one of their so-called trials, but it must be very horrible.”

“Neither have I,” said Moreno. “I see, like myself, you don’t anticipate much pleasure from it.”

“But you are going to save him, and I am going to help you,” she cried a little wildly. “You have not yet told me where I come in. The time is very short; you will have to speak soon. Why not speak now?”

The young man hesitated for a few seconds. How far should he trust her? Caution whispered not too far.

He spoke in a gloomy tone. “To tell you the truth, I am not so sure of saving him as I was. Certain things have happened which I had not taken into my calculations.”

He was watching her narrowly as he spoke, to note the effect upon her of his words. She clasped her hands together and her voice faltered.

“I am so in the dark, you tell me nothing, you keep everything to yourself.” She betrayed great agitation, but it was evident she believed his statements implicitly.

As a matter of fact, nothing had occurred to upset Moreno’s plans in the slightest degree. But there was something about which he had been a little careless. He had pretty well secured his own safety, but he had not secured hers.

“I cannot enter into a lot of explanations, when circumstances alter from hour to hour,” he said rather brusquely. “On the whole, I believe I have a better chance of saving him without your co-operation. Now, please don’t ask me why I think so!”

“I won’t, if you don’t wish it,” she answered submissively. “I wish you could have been more frank with me, have given me some hint of what you intend to do. It will be very terrible for me to be there, waiting on the turn of events.”

“You no longer desire revenge on Guy Rossett?” he asked, looking at her intently.

“Not that sort of revenge,” she answered truthfully. “For I suppose murder is in their thoughts.”

“I had a brief talk with Contraras this morning; he came round to my rooms. He was more frank than he usually is with his subordinates. I suppose he was pleased with the way in which I have, so far, conducted the affair. He thought there would be great difficulty in getting hold of Guy Rossett.”

“Will you tell me, some day, why you found it easy?”

“Some day, perhaps; but not now. To return to our chief, Contraras. He explained to me that he has no desire to remove this particular man, if he will fall into line with him. He frankly admits that he is too small game, that he would willingly avoid the odium that such a deed would bring on the brotherhood.”

“Ah!” Violet was very interested now. “If he falls in line with him. What does that mean? Or perhaps,” she added bitterly, “this is another secret that is to be hidden from me.”

“Not at all,” was the quiet answer. “I usually keep my own secrets, but I am not always so scrupulous with regard to the secrets of others. Contraras is going to offer him two alternatives. The first is—that he resigns from the Embassy on some plausible pretext, and takes a solemn oath to do nothing to thwart the brotherhood. The other alternative you can guess.”

“Death,” whispered Violet in a hollow voice, and her face went as pale as death itself.

“And you can guess what Rossett’s answer will be?” said Moreno, breaking the long silence that ensued between them after those significant words.

“I know, I know. He will choose death unless you can save him.” The woman in her came suddenly to the surface, and she broke down, sobbing bitterly.

Moreno looked at her steadily, but not unkindly, for a long time. Her emotion was genuine enough, he was sure. When the dastardly project had only been in the air, so to speak, she had not realised the full horror of it. Now that it was so near to accomplishment, she was stricken with remorse for having harboured such revengeful thoughts.

And presently he spoke again, in his quiet, deliberate accents.

“By a miracle, it may be possible for me to save him, if I can outwit them.”

“But cannot I help you? I know you do not believe much in the capacity of women, but I am not a fool, and in a crisis I believe my nerves are steady.”

“If it is fated for me to succeed, I shall work better alone. But I would like to ask you this. It will be a cruel ordeal for you to be present at this scene, especially at the moment when you will be called upon to record your vote as a member of the tribunal. Would you be grateful to me if I could save you from that ordeal?”

“Very, very grateful,” sobbed the now sorely stricken woman. “But it is impossible. I have seen Contraras to-day also. He has arranged for Alvedero to fetch me to-morrow evening, and to conduct me to that awful house where we are to receive Guy Rossett. It is impossible.”

“There are very few things in this world that are impossible,” said Moreno, a little impatiently. “The first idea I had was that you would frankly throw yourself on the compassion of Contraras, tell him that this man was once your lover, and that you must be excused from taking part in the proceedings on the ground of common humanity. The question is, would that work? It might, because I know he is still remorseful about the fate of Valerie Delmonte. But we are not sure. He is a fanatic of the deepest dye.”

“Absolutely a fanatic,” corroborated Mrs Hargrave. “To him the welfare of the brotherhood is the one supreme thing. All human emotions must be subjugated, all consideration of friends and kindred swept aside, in pursuance of the one object.”

“I am disposed to agree,” said Moreno. “Contraras’ sense of compassion is a doubtful factor. We will discard that idea. Will you put yourself in my hands?”

She looked intently into the dark, brilliant eyes, and what she read there reassured her. He was stubbornly secretive, but he was kind and sympathetic. He was ready to do his best to serve her.

“Yes, I will,” she said bravely. “I trust you.”

“Good! Then that is settled. Alvedero will call for you to-morrow evening as arranged, but you will not accompany him. He will come alone.”

“How are you going to do it?” she cried breathlessly. Her admiration for the man had grown intensely during the last few days. He seemed able to work miracles.

“I shall keep that a secret too till to-morrow morning, when I shall be round at eleven o’clock. If I told you now, you would not get a wink of sleep all night.”

“I shall not get a wink of sleep as it is,” she answered.

But, secretive to the last, Moreno was not to be tempted into frankness. “Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, you have promised to leave yourself in my hands. To-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock.”

They shook hands without another word. Moreno walked back to his lodgings reflecting deeply.

Was this attractive young woman really as bad as he had once thought? Was she not rather a creature of strong passions, of impulses at times ungovernable? Were there not in her womanly feelings that could be cherished and fostered by sympathetic companionship?

Anyway, if she followed his instructions, as she had agreed to do, he had secured her safety as well as his own. And that would be a result that would gratify him exceedingly.

Chapter Twenty One.

Save for a little impatience when his judgment was impugned, or somebody questioned the soundness of his opinions, Moreno was a person of the most equable temperament, and singularly light hearted.

Still, when he rose early on the morning of this most eventful day, he was in a very grave and thoughtful mood. He was playing a most difficult and dangerous game. Even if he outwitted the Heads of the brotherhood in Spain, as he believed he had, there were left Luçue and Jaques in London to deal with.

To save Guy Rossett was easy enough; he had laid his plans very surely for that. But he had to save himself; also to save Violet Hargrave. In the plausible explanations that he would have to give in London, there must be no loopholes.

Very early in the morning he again saw the Chief of Police, in company with Farquhar, who, now that the game was really afoot, was manifesting a keen interest in the chase. They rehearsed the whole programme all over again.

“He is cleverer than I thought him at first,” whispered Moreno to his friend, when the somewhat stout man had withdrawn for a moment to consult one of his lieutenants. “But I am relying on you to be constantly at his elbow. You are not the sort of chap to get flurried.”

And Farquhar, although quite a modest kind of fellow, agreed that he could keep his head in a crisis.

At eleven o’clock, as arranged, Moreno presented himself at the lodgings of Mrs Hargrave. She looked very pale and there were dark rings round her eyes. It was easy to see that her night had been a perturbed one, that she had enjoyed little or no sleep.

“You don’t look in the best of health and spirits,” he said kindly. “Well, you have got to pluck up your courage. You will want plenty of it for the next twenty-four hours.”

She shivered. “If I had known what I was going in for, I would never have yielded to Jaques’ entreaties,” she said.

“You never quite know what you will be landed in when you embark in these enterprises,” answered the young man lightly. “Well, now to business. You still want to be absent from that meeting to-night?”

“If it is possible.”

“It is quite possible, but you will have to rely on me, and you will also have to be very brave.”

He drew out of his pocket a small, dark-coloured phial, and held it to the light.

“You see that?” he asked. “Well, this is going to be your salvation.”

She shivered again; her nerves were very much out of order this morning, but she began to have an idea of what he was driving at.

“This is the secret, then, that you would not tell me last night. I have got to drink that.”

Moreno nodded. “Yes, if you are still in the same mind as you were yesterday. In my very early youth I was apprenticed to a chemist. I very soon began to acquire a wide knowledge of drugs, and their properties.”

They had been standing up to the present. Moreno pointed to a sofa.

“We can talk more easily if we sit. I have mixed you here a perfectly safe compound, which I want you to drink before I leave, so that I can take away the bottle; I would prefer it was not left lying about, you understand.”

She looked at him with eyes that expressed a great dread. “What effect will it have?”

“I tell you frankly, about six or seven o’clock you will feel very ill, very faint. Those effects will last for the best part of twelve hours. A few hours after that, you will be yourself again.”

She looked at him narrowly. A dark wave of suspicion had suddenly flowed over her mind. She was sure, with a woman’s certain intuition, that he was greatly attracted by her. Still, she knew nothing of him.

He had always said he was a true son of the Revolution, although she had somewhat distrusted the sincerity of that statement. Had he, out of loyalty to the Cause, revealed her perfidy to the others, and was he deputed by them to poison her, under the specious pretext of falling in with her wishes?

He read her dark, suspicious thoughts as easily as he would have read an open book. He spoke very gently, very tenderly. She had never appealed to him more than at this moment, with her pallid cheeks, the haunting dread in her eyes.

“My dear, you do not trust me, I can see. Your mind is full of doubt. Well,”—he stooped and kissed her—“I can only swear by everything I hold holy and sacred that I would not harm a hair of your head.”

No man could lie so convincingly as that. She reached out her hand for the phial, then quickly drew it back.

“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” she murmured in a low voice. “I don’t know which to choose—to do as you tell me, or to go to that dreadful place.”

“You must do as you please.” He was still very patient, but she noticed there was certain coldness in his tones.

She rose and walked about the room, wringing her hands. Her faith in him had come back, but she was still terribly afraid.

“It is early yet,” said Moreno presently. “You have plenty of time to send round for Contraras and throw yourself on his compassion. Implore him not to compel you to assist at the condemnation, perhaps the execution, of a man who was once your lover. He might give way.”

“The last thing he would do. He would think it a grand opportunity to show my fidelity to the Cause. He would let nothing stand in the way if it were his own case.”

“I agree with you now, as I agreed before when we discussed the same subject. Well, you must make up your mind. Take this, or wait here and come with Alvedero to-night.”

She was still wavering, torn between faith and doubt. “But you said you could save Guy Rossett? Is there any doubt of that?”

And Moreno, out of his pity for the woman, out of the attraction she possessed for him, spoke more plainly than he had intended.

“There is great doubt of it. But even if I could save Guy Rossett, I doubt if I could save you. I might just manage to save myself.”

And then, in a flash, she understood, and she doubted him no longer.

“I think I see it all now. You are no more a true son of the Cause than I am a true daughter. I sold their secrets for money. You would betray them for the same or other reasons.”

Moreno did not answer the question directly. He simply held out the phial towards her. “Will you drink this or not?”

She took it from him with a hand that no longer trembled. “Yes. I believe you now. I will drink it. Tell me what I am to do, how I am to act when it begins to take effect!”

“Do nothing; just go to the sofa and lie down. In a few minutes you will be in a stupor, unconscious of everything and everybody. Your landlady may come up; she can act as she pleases; send for a doctor or not. Probably nobody will come near you till Alvedero arrives. When he sees you there he can act as he pleases too. Anyway, he cannot stay long, because he will be due at the brotherhood, to whom he will bring the report of your sudden indisposition.”

“And if the doctor comes, will he not guess?”

“Dios!” cried Moreno, relapsing for a moment into Spanish. “You will be all right again long before the doctor has picked out your complaint from a dozen others that present similar symptoms.” She pulled the cork from the phial, and sniffed the contents. “There is no odour about it,” she said.

“Not the slightest,” said Moreno quietly. “I took very good care of that. I think if the doctor does come, he will be a bit puzzled.”

She drank it down at a draught, then handed the bottle back to her visitor.

“I am an adventuress, and you are—well—a sort of adventurer,” she said, with a half smile. “Well, you see, I have given you a proof of my faith in you.”

Moreno put the phial into his pocket, and held out his hand.

“Good-bye, for the present.”

“Shall I see you to-morrow?” asked Violet, as she walked with him to the door. “You say after about twelve hours I shall be myself again.”

“Certainly,” answered Moreno in his gayest tones. Yes, whatever betided, he would certainly see her to-morrow. Her trust in him had made her more attractive than ever.

On the whole, he thought he had done the best for her. Once he had thought of getting the Spanish police to arrest her on some false charge, with the view of letting her go as soon as all danger was past. But this method did not appeal to him very greatly. The police would be glad enough to get her into their clutches, but they might not care to let her go so easily. Too much explanation might be necessary, in the first instance.

And he always had to adapt his policy to the view of what questions might be asked in London. The tale she could tell now would be a very simple one. She had been attacked in the evening by a sudden seizure, had relapsed into unconsciousness, and been oblivious of everything till the next day.

That evening, at a few minutes past nine, Alvedero knocked at the door of the mean house. When the landlady opened it, he perceived that she was in a great state of agitation.

“Oh, señor, something terrible has happened. I went up to madame’s room some twenty minutes ago to take her her light supper. She was lying unconscious on the sofa, and she has not stirred since.”

Alvedero bounded up the stairs, entered the room, and gazed on the motionless form. At first he thought she was dead, but, on placing his hand on her heart, he could feel it beating.

“She looks as if she were dying. Have you sent for a doctor?”

“Yes. After I found that I could not pull her round, I sent my husband to fetch the first one he could find.”

Alvedero reflected as to his course of action. Humanity suggested that he should stay by the side of the insensible woman till the doctor arrived and gave his opinion as to her condition. But humanity was not a particular trait of the brotherhood, and Alvedero had less of it than most of his colleagues. He had arrived five minutes late, he had spent another five minutes here. If he left at once, he would still be keeping his colleagues waiting.

Besides, what good could he do? If the woman were not dying, as he believed she was, it must be hours before she recovered. The tribunal must sit without her. The sooner he went and informed them of that fact, the better.

He turned towards the door, and spoke a few parting words to the landlady.

“Don’t leave her till the doctor comes. Obey whatever instructions he gives promptly. I will see that you are rewarded for your trouble. I will look in again, in two or three hours from now. Please sit up for me.”

He walked a few yards down the street, where a cab was waiting. He entered it, and was driven rapidly towards an obscure portion of the town.

Half an hour later, Isobel was sitting in the drawing-room alone. Her host and hostess had gone on a visit to some friends who lived near. Guy had not been able to see her during the day, as he had been too busily engaged with his official duties. He had sent round a note telling her he would be round in the evening. She was expecting him every minute.

There was a tap at the door. The maid entered with a letter. The gentleman who had brought it was waiting in the hall for an answer.

She recognised the handwriting on the envelope at once as that of her cousin Maurice Farquhar. She tore it open and read the few pencilled words: “I want to see you at once. It is about Mr Rossett.” She rushed out into the hall, and almost pulled him into the room.

“What is it?” she panted in terrified tones. “Something has happened to Guy.”

“Yes, something has happened, but you must be brave and not give way. He has been trapped by the anarchists, but all will be well. Moreno assures me that he has foreseen this, and will save him. I am now on my way to do my share in the rescue.”

“Can I come with you?” pleaded Isobel. “I shall go mad if I stop here.”

For a moment Farquhar hesitated. He had a rooted dislike to women mixing themselves up in dangerous or turbulent scenes. But her pleading eyes overcame his scruples.

“Yes, if you wish. I have a cab waiting. Leave a note for these people here explaining your absence. Then put on your things and come with me. I will explain everything as we go along.”

A few minutes later they were seated side by side, driving to the same obscure quarter of the town which had long ago been reached by the Spanish anarchist Alvedero.

Chapter Twenty Two.

In a shabby room of a shabby house in one of the most obscure quarters of Madrid, five men were sitting. They were Contraras, Zorrilta, Alvedero, Moreno, and Somoza, the fisherman of Fonterrabia.

“Guy Rossett is here, in the next room.” It was Moreno who spoke. He turned to the fisherman. “Has he recovered sufficiently, Somoza?”

The fisherman answered: “He was still a little bit dazed a minute ago when I left him. The handkerchief I flung over his face contained a pretty strong dose. I should give him another ten minutes before he is ready to face the tribunal.”

The capture had been easy. Guy Rossett, reckless of danger, had left his flat to pay his visit to Isobel Clandon. Two members of the Secret Police were ready to accompany him. Fearful of compromising Isobel, he had rather roughly dispensed with their services. Reluctantly, they had obeyed him. They agreed between themselves that an Englishman was always pig-headed, a bit of a dare-devil, and inclined to take risks.

Guy walked carelessly along. He was in rather good spirits. He had received that day a cheerful note from Moreno that everything was going well, that very soon the heads of the anarchist movement in Spain would be laid by the heels.

Of course, in this letter, Moreno did not explain his methods. If he had done so, Guy might not have been in quite such high spirits.

For at this moment, playing his very difficult game of saving Guy Rossett, saving himself and Violet Hargrave, and also snaring the anarchists, Moreno could only give his full confidence to one man, his old friend and companion, Maurice Farquhar.

As a matter of fact, Rossett never knew what had really taken place that night. He was never told that Moreno knew of his projected visit to Isobel that evening, from a random remark of hers dropped in the afternoon—that he had set Somoza and another tall Biscayan fisherman to follow him, for the purpose of bringing him to the house where the heads of the anarchist movement were assembled in solemn conclave.

Rossett walked gaily along. He would have a precious hour with Isobel. In a dark street two men came up behind him. One pinioned his arms from behind. Somoza pressed a saturated handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds the unfortunate young diplomatist was drugged and helpless.

A cab, driven by a member of the brotherhood, had crawled slowly after the two men. As soon as the driver saw what had happened, he drove rapidly up. The two powerful men lifted the inert body into the vehicle. He was partially recovered when they halted at the house where the tribunal of five was sitting to pronounce judgment on the man who had dared to thwart their plans.

They locked him in a room adjoining that in which Contraras was presiding over the deliberations of his five trusted lieutenants. After locking him in securely, Somoza went to report the matter to Moreno. His colleague, the other Biscayan fisherman, remained on guard outside the closed door, for fear of untoward accidents. Rossett was a powerful man.

Contraras, with his fine intellectual face, his hair in places turning from iron-grey to white, looked the embodiment of dignified justice. Perhaps, in his warped and fanatical mind, he believed he was.

He spoke in his most judicial accents. “Nobody shall ever say that he has not had a fair trial, when brought up before the tribunal of the brotherhood. We will wait an hour, if it is necessary, for this misguided young man to recover his senses.” Moreno, who had arrived the last of the party, looked round with a sudden start. “Where is our comrade, Violet Hargrave?”

Contraras hastened to explain. “Ah! of course you have not heard. Alvedero went to bring her here, according to arrangement. He found her stretched on the sofa, motionless and inanimate. He thinks she is in a dying condition. He is going round to inquire after these proceedings are over.”

“This is very sad,” said Moreno, in his gravest manner. “And she is such a nice woman personally, and so devoted to the Cause, through the influence of Jaques. I wonder,”—he cast an inquiring look at Alvedero—“if, by any chance, she drinks or drugs. Many apparently nice women do!” Alvedero shook his big head. “I doubt it. I should say a seizure of some sort. Perhaps her heart is weak. She looks a little fragile.”

Moreno, for obvious reasons, did not pursue the subject. Violet Hargrave’s absence had evidently excited no comment, no suspicion.

A quarter of an hour had elapsed. Somoza was deputed to enter the locked room and ascertain the condition of the prisoner. Contraras was resolved to proceed justly, according to his interpretation of the word justice.

Somoza returned after his inspection, and reported that the effects of the saturated handkerchief had worn off. Guy Rossett was in a sense clothed in his right mind. He was fit to face the tribunal.

The members of the conclave assumed masks. Somoza had worn a mask when he had entered the locked room. Whatever happened, it was essential that Guy Rossett should not be able to identify any one of them.

The prisoner, or captive, whatever he might be called, was brought in. In the cab he had been bound securely round the legs and wrists, but not painfully. He was assisted to a chair by the masked Somoza, where he sat facing his judges.

His face was a little pale, due to the effects of the chloroform, but his demeanour was firm. He felt himself in a very tight corner, but he had been assured so often by Moreno that he need never despair. A good angel, in the shape of Moreno himself, was watching over him.

He cast his glance rapidly over the masked men confronting him. Where was the black-browed young journalist whom he had known in old days?

Yes, there on the right, nearest to the door. Had that position been chosen by accident or design? He recognised at once the short, squat figure. Through the holes of the mask, he could see the gleam of those dark eyes. His demeanour would be more indomitable than ever.

Contraras opened the proceedings in his most judicial manner.

“Mr Rossett, you will recognise that you are now at the mercy of the brotherhood, against whom for some time you have directed your activities.”

“Quite true,” replied Guy Rossett in his curtest manner. Whatever fate was in store for him, he was not going to knuckle under to this crew of bloodthirsty ruffians.

Contraras continued in his calm, imperturbable manner.

“I cannot say that, up to the present, you have done us very much harm, but still you are a menace to our schemes, our aspirations.”

“I am pleased to hear that I am of sufficient importance to justify this mock tribunal.” Rossett waved his hand contemptuously at the masked men sitting in judgment on him.

The eyes of Contraras flashed through his mask. He took his position very seriously.

“Mr Rossett, let me advise you, in your own interests, not to carry matters with too high a hand. Kindly recognise your position. If you were seated in the Calle Fernando el Santo, I admit you would be top dog. At the present moment the brotherhood, here in this obscure house, in this obscure quarter of the city of Madrid, is in that enviable situation.”

A bitter retort was on Rossett’s lips, but he thought he perceived an almost imperceptible gesture of warning from the short, squat figure in the corner near the door. He temporised.

“The fortunes of war, I admit, are with you, sir. I am sorry I have not the advantage of knowing whom I have the honour to address.”

Contraras was, at heart, a gentleman. He felt the sting of the rebuke.

“Mr Rossett, if you come into line with us to-night, I may deal with you quite frankly. Before we separate, you may know as much about me as I do about you.”

There was an obvious movement on the part of Zorrilta and Alvedero. They evidently thought their chief was going too far.

Contraras hushed the incipient rebellion with an authoritative wave of his hand.

“Gentlemen, kindly leave me to deal with this matter. Mr Rossett and I will understand each other in a very few moments.”

He turned towards the young diplomatist, still undaunted in the midst of this hostile crowd.

“Mr Rossett, you have much to lose by opposing us—perhaps life itself. By withdrawing from this unequal contest—and, believe me, it is unequal—you have much to gain.”

“I am not so sure it is unequal,” answered Guy Rossett stubbornly. He had perceived too late the warning signal of Moreno, anxious that the somewhat uncertain Contraras should not be deflected from his present calm, judicial mood.

But Contraras kept his temper. “Mr Rossett, you are a young man, with life, a happy and prosperous life, before you. I know a great deal about you; it is my business to know much about other people. You are engaged to a very charming girl, you will inherit a great fortune from a wealthy aunt.”

“And, if you could establish your principles,” broke in Guy, speaking with some heat, “you might take away from me my fiancée—you would certainly rob me of my fortune.”

But Contraras was still patient. He was trying to reason with this obstinate young man, whose bold bearing moved his admiration.

“We cannot tell how the great Revolution will shape itself ultimately. But let us deal with present facts. A charming girl is waiting for you, longing for the moment when she can be your wife.”

A shadow of pain passed over Guy’s face. To-night, he had set out to visit his beloved Isobel, and he had been snared.

Contraras watched him narrowly through the holes of his mask.

“And a big fortune will be yours very shortly. Are you prepared to give up these advantages for the sake of thwarting the brotherhood?”

“I rather think I am. But tell me what you propose. I admit you are arguing in a most temperate fashion. But you have something up your sleeve all the time.”

“I have,” admitted Contraras frankly. “Mr Rossett, believe me, I have no personal animosity against you, except as the tool of a decaying and effete system. Come into line with me, and your bonds shall be loosed, and you shall go forth a free man.”

“Your conditions?” queried Rossett, in a hard voice.

“Take your solemn oath, no, give me your word as an English gentleman—I will accept that—that you will resign your position at the Embassy, and take no further action against the brotherhood.”

He rose, and pointed at the door. “Give me that promise, Mr Rossett, and you can walk out a free man.”

If Guy hesitated a moment, his hesitation must be pardoned. In that swift instant he thought of Isobel, anxiously waiting his arrival, his dear sister Mary, anxious and troubled also, even his father, whose maladroit interference in his affairs had sent him into this hotbed of disaffection.

Then he spoke slowly and deliberately. “You invite me to dishonour myself, in order to secure my own personal safety. My answer is, No. Do your worst.”

“You will not reconsider that decision, Mr Rossett?”

Guy shook his head. “No, a thousand times, no. Do what you like with me. I am a defenceless man. You can murder me here, and probably hush up your crime. But I shall be avenged—you can reckon on that.”

Contraras rose, and paced the room in great agitation. He was a brave man himself; he admired the quality of bravery in others. Fanatical and resolute as he was, it went against the grain to condemn this young Englishman to death, because he would not accept the dishonourable terms offered to him.

“Mr Rossett, I wish to spare you. The brotherhood does not condemn in haste.” He turned to Somoza. “Take this gentleman to his room, and bring him here in a quarter of an hour. Perhaps, by that time, he will take a more reasonable view of his position.”

“Come, señor, if you please,” said the obedient Somoza, speaking through his mask in the most polite accents. A Spaniard is always courteous, even if he is about to murder you.

The fisherman bent down to assist his prisoner to rise, but before Rossett was firmly on his legs, the short, squat figure of Moreno got up from his chair. He laid his finger to his lips and looked round at the assembly.

“Silence, gentlemen, for a moment! I am sure I heard the sound of a whistle. Yes, there is another one. Did you catch it?”

No, nobody had caught it, except Moreno. He stole gently to the window, and pulled the blind an inch aside. He dropped it hastily, and staggered back in a state of extreme agitation. In that apparently unconscious movement he had drawn nearer to the door.

“Dios!” he cried, in a shrill voice. “The house is surrounded. There are dozens of men outside.”

The pulling aside of the blind was a signal he had arranged with his friend, the head of the Police. The pretence of the whistle was a blind.

There was a heavy trampling on the stairs. Almost before he had ceased speaking, the locked door was burst open to admit the members of the police, with levelled revolvers covering the masked men.

Two of the unwelcome visitors seized Somoza and handcuffed him. A third cut the secure but not painful ropes that bound Rossett, and conducted him down the narrow staircase.

A cab was waiting; his guardian bundled the young man in.

Was it a dream? Isobel’s soft arms were round him, Isobel’s soft voice was whispering to him.

“My darling, you are safe. Moreno has kept his promise.”

Rossett was bewildered. No wonder! He had hardly yet recovered from the effects of the drug which had been administered by Somoza. His head fell back on her shoulder.

“Isobel, my dear sweetheart! You here! What does it mean?”

“It means that you are saved through Moreno, and my cousin Maurice Farquhar.” She felt it was no time to palter with the truth.

“Your cousin, Maurice Farquhar! What has he to do with it all?”

She was pleased to note that there was no suspicion in his tones, only the expression of bewilderment.

“Oh, it would take hours to explain, but I will cut it as short as I can. My cousin and Moreno are great friends. Maurice has come over here to help him. I was expecting you to-night, as you will remember. Maurice came round to explain that you had been kidnapped. He was coming on here, as Moreno’s lieutenant, to help the police. I implored him to take me along, to welcome you when you escaped from them. He consented, and here I am.”

Guy clasped her in his arms. “You darling! And where is Mr Farquhar? I would like to thank him.”

Isobel beckoned to a man standing a little way in the shadow. He advanced.

“Maurice, Guy wishes to thank you for all your share in this night’s work.”

The two men exchanged a cordial handshake. Guy muttered his thanks.

“I would like to tell you to drive off straight away,” said Farquhar. “But you must wait a minute or two. There will be a third occupant of this vehicle—our friend Moreno, who is going to pass the night at the house of the Chief of Police. To-morrow he will go to England.”

In the room from which Rossett had been conducted to his friendly guardian, the head of the police was taking the situation in hand.

“Masks off, if you please, gentlemen,” he cried out in stentorian tones.

The men turned hesitatingly to each other. But the levelled revolvers had an eloquence that was very appealing. They tore off their masks and flung them on the floor.

The chief scrutinised them in turn, offering audible comments.

“Ah, Contraras, the dark horse of the conspiracy, connected with the Spanish nobility through your wife. I think I have met you at the Court. Alvedero—ah, for some time you have been suspect. Zorrilta, I know you well. Governor of the Province of Navarre.”

He pointed to Somoza. “This gentleman I do not know. We shall find something about him later on.”

He turned to Moreno, who preserved an impassive demeanour.

“I have not the honour of knowing this gentleman, either,” he said with a splendid disregard of the truth, for which Moreno admired him immensely. “But no doubt I shall shortly atone for my ignorance. I shall have something to say to him later on.”

He turned to his subordinates. “Handcuff them and take them along.”

Moreno all the time had been edging nearer to the door. Suddenly he pulled out a knife, and hurled himself at the man who was guarding it. The man went down before the apparently savage onslaught. Moreno rushed down the stairs.

“After him,” yelled the Chief. “Don’t let that man escape.”

Three of the waiting men clattered down the stairs after the flying Moreno. They returned a few moments later, crestfallen. They explained that he had flown like the wind, that they had lost him in the darkness.

The Chief swore roundly, and cursed them. “Dolts, idiots!” he cried fiercely. “You have let him slip through your fingers. I believe he is the most dangerous man of the lot.”

He was certainly playing his part splendidly. It had, of course, all been rehearsed. The man on whom Moreno had sprung had fallen down of his own accord. The men who had been dispatched to pursue him had lost him on purpose.

Farquhar met him at the door of the shabby house and piloted him to the cab in which Guy Rossett and Isobel were seated.

“Here is the third passenger,” he said. Moreno got in and looked triumphantly at the two. “Well, what do you think of the English Secret Service?” he cried in exultant tones. “Mr Rossett is saved, I have escaped without suspicion, and my good friend the Chief of Police will make a splendid haul upstairs. He played up splendidly. Well, I think, after to-night the anarchist movement will have a big set-back in Spain.”

The cab drove along. Isobel was deposited at the Godwins’. Rossett was put down at his own flat. Moreno was conveyed to the residence of the Chief of Police, where he was to pass the night.

A telegram was awaiting Guy. It was from his sister Mary.

“I was summoned to Aunt Henrietta this morning. She had passed away before I arrived.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

The next morning Guy Rossett and Farquhar were admitted to a private audience of the King. A gracious message had been transmitted to Moreno through the agency of the Chief of Police. It would not have been very politic on the part of that enterprising young man to show himself at the Palace.

His Majesty thanked them both warmly for their services, and was very interested in the details which they gave him of that eventful evening.

“I know England well, and love it,” he said. “As long as she breeds such sons as you, she will always remain the first of great nations. Last night’s work was good. My poor country will have a more peaceful time now that we have laid these bloodthirsty scoundrels by the heels.”

Moreno’s overpowering impulse was to get back to England as quickly as possible. But there was a certain duty to perform first. He must pay his promised visit to Violet Hargrave.

He called about eleven o’clock. He found her looking pale and languid from the effects of the powerful mixture he had given her.

“Pulling round?” he inquired as they shook hands. “I can see you are, but you won’t be quite yourself for a few hours. Well, tell me what happened. I arrived late at the meeting, and simply heard from Contraras that Alvedero had reported you were indisposed. But I learned no details, and, of course, did not press for any. Did they fetch a doctor to you? If so, what is his verdict?”

A faint smile spread over her pale face.

“He has only left a few minutes ago. He came to the conclusion that I dosed myself with drugs. I allowed him to believe that I did. Of course, I have never drugged in my life.”

“A very clever man, an ornament to his profession,” remarked Moreno drily. “Still, how the devil should he guess, being totally ignorant of the circumstances? And the symptoms were precisely those which would have been produced by a long course of drugging.”

Mrs Hargrave laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in a serious voice.

“What of last night? There is nothing in the papers this morning. I have sent out for half a dozen. Tell me what happened.”

“The brotherhood has been defeated again.” He rehearsed the scene for her benefit, and came to the concluding portion.

“Just as they were about to remove Rossett, I distinctly heard a low whistle, that was repeated a few seconds later. I just pulled aside the curtain, and saw that the house was surrounded. I had hardly put the blind back when the door was burst open and the police swarmed in. They cut Rossett loose and took him downstairs. They covered us with revolvers, and made us take off our masks. The Chief who was with them recognised Contraras, Zorrilta, and Alvedero. Myself and Somoza he did not recognise.”

“Ah!” Violet Hargrave drew a long breath. “You were the only one who escaped, then? How did you manage it?”

“By a miracle. I always keep my head in a crisis. As soon as I heard them rushing up the stairs, I drew near to the door, hoping to escape in the confusion. It was, of course, a thousand to one chance. While all the attention was being concentrated on Contraras and the others—of course the Chief didn’t expect to bag such a big game—I drew my knife, plunged it into the breast of the man guarding the door—I fear I killed him, poor fellow—flew down the stairs, knocked over another chap, and dodged through them.”

Violet Hargrave surveyed him critically. “I am afraid you haven’t a very high opinion of my intelligence. That is the story you will tell to Luçue, Maceda, and Jaques when we meet again in London. It does not impose upon me. You have escaped right enough, but you escaped with the connivance of the police.”

Moreno bit his lip; he had presumed a little too much upon feminine incredulity.

“At any rate, you are not in their clutches,” he said quietly. “I saved you. Don’t forget that.”

She reached out her hand. “Please forgive me. I am very grateful for what you have done. Of course, if I had gone there you could not have saved me. I should have been taken with the others. You could save Guy Rossett and yourself, even your clever brain could not have taken in a third. I repeat, I am very grateful.”

Moreno retained her hand in his. Secretive as he was by nature, he felt that the time for dissimulation was past.

“When we get to London—I am leaving to-night, and the sooner we make tracks the better—we will respect each other’s secrets. I have still in my possession the photographed copy of that document which you sold to Guy Rossett.”

She drew away her hand from his with an indignant gesture.

“Oh, you think I am utterly, irretrievably base!” she cried bitterly. “You think I would betray you, after what you have done for me, saved me from death or a life-long imprisonment.” She broke into wild sobbing.

He put his arm round her, and drew her gently towards him, till her crying ceased.

“My poor little Violet,” he whispered gently. “Let us speak together quite frankly. You are, on your own showing, an adventuress, with, I believe, some very womanly instincts. Well, I am not quite sure that I am very much better. You sold the Cause for money. I sold it for money, too, plus conviction. I wonder if we could turn over a new leaf, lead a new life together?”

“If I could find somebody who really cared for me,” cried the pretty little blonde woman, still tearful. “Jaques loves me, I am sure, but just with the love of a father.”

“Well, I care for you,” said Moreno, and this time he spoke without any reservation.

Violet lifted her face to his, and their lips met. Then she shivered.

“But how can we escape from this horrible brotherhood? Luçue and Jaques are left. They will exact their pound of flesh. They will snare us into equally dangerous enterprises.”

Moreno snapped his fingers. “Bah! If I have outwitted Contraras and the others, I will soon settle Luçue’s hash. As to poor old Jaques, it won’t take long to convince him that he is more safely employed in earning a hundred per cent, on his capital than in trying to blow up respectable people who have certainly never injured him. The fate of the others will frighten him.”

Violet drew herself from his protecting arm, and dried her eyes.

“I think, dear, I can really turn into a good woman,” she said plaintively. “You see, I have never had a proper chance. When I married Jack, and I was genuinely fond of him, I thought I had met a gentleman. Can you guess what he really was?”

“A card-sharper?” suggested Moreno, with his uncanny facility of guessing conundrums.

Mrs Hargrave nodded her blonde head.

“You have hit it. A week after we were married he told me all about himself. We were to take an expensive flat in Mount Street, and he would bring people there. He spent three weeks in teaching me an elaborate system of signalling. As a rule, we played together, but he had another couple of confederates to ward off suspicion.”

“Did you tell Jaques of this?”

“No, I was too ashamed. Jaques is, of course, a rogue in his own way, but not that way. He was opposed to the marriage at first, and I was keen on it. I made out that Jack was a man of good family, and well-off. I believed all he told me at the start. I didn’t want to own that I had been taken in.”

“I quite understand,” replied Moreno. “By the way, of course you didn’t know that poor old Contraras is dead.”

“Contraras dead? How did he die?”

“It appears that he always carried some poisoned tablets in his pocket in case of accidents. Before they handcuffed him—they are a bit slower here than in Paris or London—he swallowed one of them, and died as they took him downstairs. Poor old man! He was a terrible fanatic, but he was more honest than most of them. I don’t suppose there will be much mourning in Fitzjohn’s Avenue. I expect his family will be glad to have got rid of him.”

He kissed her very tenderly, as he bade her good-bye.

“A new life, little woman, from to-day?”

“A new life from to-day,” she repeated softly, “as long as I am sure that you really care.”

“I do care,” replied Moreno, speaking with unusual fervour for a man of his cautious temperament.

Of the London section of the brotherhood little remains to be told. Shortly afterwards Luçue was stabbed to death in a violent quarrel with a brother anarchist. Jaques and Maceda, alarmed at the fate of their Spanish colleagues, took but a perfunctory part in further propaganda. In twelve months’ time the London section had ceased to exist as an active force.

On a mellow October day, a few months after those thrilling events in Madrid, Isobel was married in the quiet little church on her uncle’s estates. It was in this church that her father had been christened. Her bridesmaids were Lady Mary and two cousins. Her uncle, the head of the family, gave her away.

For the Head of the Family and his wife had behaved quite properly on the occasion. They had insisted that she should be married from their house, that she should have the whole-hearted support of her kindred.

Such an arrangement suited her very well. Her bereavement had been so recent that the idea of a fashionable wedding would have been repugnant to her. Here in this quiet little church, where generations of Clandons had been christened, many of them married, she gave herself to the man of her choice.

With the advent of his great-aunt’s considerable fortune, Guy’s brief fit of ambition died out. And it must be admitted that, although he had stuck gallantly to his post, and refused to show the white feather, his experience of diplomatic life had been more exciting than pleasant. So he severed his connection with the Foreign Office, having made up his mind to lead the easy and agreeable life of a man of wealth and position.

They were to spend their honeymoon in Italy. On their return, they would renovate Aunt Henrietta’s charming country residence in Hampshire and take a house in London, where they intended to spend a good deal of their time.

For Guy was very proud of his beautiful Isobel, and he could see a time when she would become a very charming and popular hostess.

The young couple drove away amidst the cordial greetings of the small company assembled. Only a few intimate connections of the two families were present.

Moreno had been invited, but he had excused himself on some plausible pretext. He had no desire to thrust himself into an aristocratic milieu, to which he was unaccustomed. He sent the bride a very handsome present, with a card on which was written: “From Andres Moreno, as a souvenir of thrilling times in Spain.”

While Lord Saxham was saying good-bye to the Clandons, Maurice Farquhar conducted Lady Mary to the car which was to drive them back to Ticehurst Park, a distance of about fifty miles.

“You will not forget that you are due to us on the twenty-fifth,” she reminded him as they shook hands.

“Is it likely? I have been looking forward to it ever since you sent me the invitation.”

“I am looking forward to it, too,” said Mary softly, and a rather becoming colour swept over her cheek, making her look quite attractive.

The Earl joined them and mounted the car. He waved his hand cheerfully as they drove off. “Not good-bye, but au revoir, Farquhar. See you on the twenty-fifth.”

He watched the car drive out of sight, thinking of many things. He had loved Isobel with all the fervour of first love, but Isobel was gone from him. And Mary was very sweet and attractive, and took no pains to conceal that she took great pleasure in his society. Well—perhaps some day!

But even in his secret thought the young and ambitious barrister could hardly bring himself to believe that a girl of Mary’s birth and long descent would give herself to a man who had only his brains to recommend him.

Still, this younger generation of the Rossetts had a strange democratic strain in them. Guy had chosen his bride from the small squirearchy. It was openly rumoured in the clubs that, having come into a snug little income from great-aunt Henrietta, Lord Ticehurst had made up his mind to marry his chorus-girl, and defy his father.

Lady Mary had also been well provided for from the same kind source. She might prove as democratic as the others.

And, while Farquhar was ruminating over all these things, Isobel and her husband had set out on the first stage of their journey to the enchanted land of wedded romance.

The End.

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Preface

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Prologue

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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