Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.At the period at which this story opens, there stood in Gerrard Street, Soho, a small, unpretentious restaurant, frequented almost exclusively by foreigners. Over the front was written the name of Maceda.Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard, with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. The majority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen who found their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the same time, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept a wary eye upon Maceda and his friends.It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners.He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends.Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda’s. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart.The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand.“How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well.”For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word—it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly.A sudden light came into the proprietor’s eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont.“So you are with us, at last,” he said. “A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way.”The restaurant keeper led him up a narrow staircase—the house was a very old one—to a big room on the second floor. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, on which were set bowls of flowers and dishes of fruit. Moreno looked around gratefully. As far as creature comforts went, he was going to have a pleasant evening. Maceda was evidently going to do his best.Maceda pointed to a little side-room.“It is there the initiation will be performed at seven. At half-past, dinner will be served. After dinner, the business of the meeting will take place. You are a bit early. I know this much, that you are here on the introduction of Emilio Luçue.”“Quite right,” answered Moreno easily. “It was Luçue who persuaded me to the right way.”Maceda raised his hands in admiration at the mention of that name.“Ah, what a man, what a genius!” he cried in fervent tones. “If our cause ever triumphs, if the world-wide revolution is ever brought about—and sometimes, my friend, I feel very disheartened—it is men like Luçue who will make it a possibility.”“Trust to Luçue,” answered Moreno, in his easy way. “If he can’t do it, nobody can.”Maceda moved towards the door. “Excuse me that I can no longer keep you company. But business is business, you know. I must be there to welcome my patrons. Maceda’s restaurant is nothing without Maceda. You know that. My subordinates are good, and do their best, but it is my personality that keeps the thing going. If I am away for ten minutes, everything hangs fire.” Moreno waved a cheerful hand at him.“Do not stand upon ceremony, my good old friend. I shall be quite happy here till the others arrive. No doubt I shall see you later.”The proprietor walked to the door, with his long, slow stride.“The three will be here at seven to initiate you. I shall run up for a few moments now and again during the dinner. The two men who will wait upon you are, of course, members of our society. I shall hope to be present, if only for a brief space, at the meeting. Once again, a thousand welcomes.”Maceda shut the door carefully. Moreno was left alone, in the long, narrow room. He gave vent to a low whistle, when Maceda was out of earshot.“The old boy takes it very seriously,” so ran his reflections. “I suppose they will all take it quite as seriously. Anyway, they intend to do themselves well. I wonder where the money comes from? And I further wonder if I shall meet anybody whom one would the least expect to find in such a venture.”On the stroke of seven Luçue arrived, a fine, handsome man of imposing presence. He was accompanied by two men, one an Italian, the other a Russian. It was evidently going to be a meeting of many nations.Luçue greeted the journalist with a friendly smile. “Ah, my friend, you are before us. That is a good sign. I hope you do not feel nervous.”Moreno answered truthfully that he did not. The whole thing appealed greatly to his sense of humour. Here were a dozen anarchists, meeting in a small restaurant in Soho, and pluming themselves upon the idea that, from their obscure vantage-ground, they could blow up the world into fragments and overpower the forces of law and order, to bring it into accordance with their wild dreams.The four men went into the ante-room. Here the solemn rights of initiation were performed with perfect seriousness. Afterwards, when he reflected on the subject, Moreno remembered that he had taken some very blood-curdling oaths.His gay and easy temperament was not greatly affected by the fact. He had been in the pay of the Secret Service before; he was in its pay now. A man must take risks, if he wanted to make a good living. Besides, he loved adventure. If the apparently genial Luçue ever had cause to suspect him, then Luçue would stick a knife into his ribs without the slightest compunction. But he felt sure he was the cleverer of the two, and that Luçue would suspect every member of the fraternity before himself.The somewhat tedious initiation over, the four men went into the dining-room. Most of the members had arrived. The two waiters were bringing up the soup.Moreno recognised with a start the portly form of Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, the moneylender of Dover Street. Luçue had told him that the common language was French, in order to accommodate all nationalities.Moreno addressed him. “I don’t think you remember me, Mr Jackson. I had the pleasure of introducing young Harry Mount Vernon to you some months ago, when he was wanting a little of the ready. He has always spoken in the highest terms of you.” Mr Jackson, always suave and genial, bowed and smiled. But it was evident he was searching the recesses of his memory.Moreno helped him out of his difficulty.“I am Andres Moreno, a Fleet Street journalist, who mixes with all sorts and conditions of men.”“Ah, I remember now.” Jackson, to call him by his assumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. “And so, you are one of us?”“Yes, very much so,” replied Moreno quietly.“Our friend Luçue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful man.”Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda.“A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause triumphs, it will be due to him.” Another worshipper, thought Moreno, with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious, with a whole-hearted worship of their leader.The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile.“All here, except the two ladies,” he said. “We must wait for the ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience.”As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman, the other as obviously an Englishwoman.Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand.“Always late, my dear Violet,” he said, “but better late than never.”Then Luçue bustled up, and took the situation in hand.“Now, Jackson, you mustn’t monopolise one of the two charming young women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish, his mother was English.”The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the flower and fruit-laden table. Luçue, probably through inadvertence had not mentioned the woman’s name.Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar to him.And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English.“Our good friend Luçue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?”Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with suspicion.“I think we had better talk in French, if you don’t mind—it is the rule here. It might annoy others if we didn’t. Where did you know me, and what do you know about me?”Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease.“I am a journalist, rather well-known in Fleet Street.”“Yes, I know that,” answered Violet a little impatiently. “Luçue mentioned your name, and it is, as you say, a well-known one. But you have not answered my question. Where did you first know me?”Moreno explained the little incident of the Albert Hall Bazaar.“I see, then, you rather singled me out from the others,” said Mrs Hargrave, and this time the glance was more coquettish than suspicious. “But I am more interested in this—what do you know about me?”Moreno put his cards on the table at once.“We journalists pick up a lot of odd information. I know that you are an intimate friend of our friend Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, and one of us; and that to a certain extent you help him in his business, by introducing valuable clients.”“Oh, you know that, do you?” Mrs Hargrave’s tone was quite friendly. She respected brains, and this dark-faced young Anglo-Spaniard was not only good-looking, but very clever. “Tell me some more.”“Well, I know that you still live in Mount Street, that you married Jack Hargrave, who was never supposed by his friends to have any visible means of subsistence. Also that at one time, you were a great friend of Guy Rossett, the man who has just been appointed to Madrid.”“Oh, then you know Guy Rossett?”“No,” answered Moreno quietly. “I don’t move in such exalted circles. But I always hear of what is going on in high society, through my influential friends.”She looked at him quizzically. “Have you many influential friends?” she asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in her pleasant, low-pitched voice.A slight flush dyed Moreno’s swarthy cheek at what he considered her impertinent question.“More perhaps than you would think possible,” he answered stiffly.She read in his nettled tone that she had wounded hisamour propre. She hastened to make amends. She was always a little too prone to speak without reflection.“Oh please don’t think I meant to be rude. But we soldiers of fortune, and all of us here are that, are not likely to have many friends in high places.”The journalist paid her back in her own coin.“Not real friends, of course. But still, we swim about in many cross currents. You yourself have a certain position in a certain section of what we might call semi-smart society.”Violet Hargrave laughed good-humouredly. She was liberal-minded in this respect, that she seldom resented a thrust at herself when she had been the aggressor.“Very neatly put. I have no illusions about my actual position. I am not sure that my particular circle is even semi-smart, except in its own estimation.”So peace was restored between them, and they chatted gaily together during the progress of the meal. She had taken a great liking to the brainy young journalist. And Moreno, on his side, was forced to admit that she was a very attractive woman.The grave and dignified Maceda, looking more like a nobleman than the proprietor of an obscure restaurant, came up a few times, and talked in confidential whispers with the principal guests. He chatted longest with Luçue and the handsome young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who, Moreno learned afterwards, stood high in the councils and the estimation of the society.After dinner, the waiters withdrew, the men smoked, and the two ladies produced dainty cigarette cases. Then the business of the evening began.The genial Luçue, who looked the least ferocious of anarchists, opened the proceedings. He gave a brief but lucid survey of what was going on abroad, of the methods by which the great gospel of freedom was being spread in different capitals.The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who had dined well on the most expensive viands, delivered a fiery and passionate harangue against the great ones of the earth, the parasites and bloodsuckers who existed on the toil of their poorer brethren.Her speech roused the assembly to enthusiasm, Mr Jackson being particularly fervent in his applause. No doubt, he believed himself to be a philanthropist, insomuch as he levied his exactions on the leisured classes; thus, in a measure, redressing the balance of human wrongs.Moreno applauded with hardly less fervour than the moneylender, and he was pleased to note that the eloquent Valerie shot a grateful glance at him. He had already gained the confidence of Luçue. He felt sure, from the reception accorded her, that she was only second to the great man himself. If he could secure her good graces, his position would be safe.Some business, not of great importance, was discussed. Certain projects were put to the vote. On one subject, Luçue and Mademoiselle Valerie dissented from the majority. Moreno decided with the two, and the majority reversed its verdict.Violet Hargrave was, perhaps, the least enthusiastic of the party. Truth to tell, she was studying the young journalist very intently. He interested her greatly.The proceedings ended. A meeting was arranged for next week at the same place, when two members of the brotherhood were expected to arrive from Barcelona with the latest reports of what was happening in Spain.After a little desultory chatting in groups, Maceda’s guests prepared to depart.Moreno held out his hand to Mrs Hargrave. He bore the air of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed himself, as in truth he had.“A most delightful evening. I can only hope you will sit beside me next week. But that I fear is too much to hope for. I expect our good friend Luçue arranges these things with a sense of equity.”Mrs Hargrave smiled. “I expect next time he will put you next to Mademoiselle Delmonte.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, she added abruptly, “Are you doing anything after this?”“I was only going on to my club for an hour or two. We journalists are not very early birds.”Mrs Hargrave spoke with her most charming smile. “Then get me a taxi, and drive with me to my flat in Mount Street. I should like to have a little chat with you.”Moreno was delighted to accompany her. He was eager to know more of this fascinating and enigmatical woman. He was puzzled by her. How did she live; on what did she live? Was she at heart an anarchist? Or, sudden thought, was she playing the same game as himself? He had noticed her lack of enthusiasm over the events of the evening.Arrived in Mount Street, she produced her latchkey, and ushered him into her luxurious flat, the abode of a well-off woman. She turned into the drawing-room, and switched on the electric light.She threw her cloak on a chair and rang the bell. When the maid appeared in answer, she ordered her to bring refreshment.She mixed a whiskey and soda for Moreno with her own slender dainty hands. She mixed a very small portion for herself, to keep him company.“I very rarely take anything of this sort, just a glass of very light wine at lunch or dinner,” she explained. “But to-night is a somewhat exceptional one. To your health, Mr Moreno. I hope we may meet often.”The journalist responded in suitable terms. He was very attracted by her, but he was not quite sure that he desired a close acquaintance. He had heard from his young friend Mount Vernon of her bridge parties, and the fact that people lost large sums of money there. She was evidently of a most hospitable nature, but she might prove a very expensive hostess.They chatted for some time on different topics. Then, after a brief space, she suddenly burst out with a question.“What do you know of Guy Rossett?”Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “Next to nothing. I only know what everybody knows, that he has been sent to Madrid.”Question and answer followed swiftly.“Do you know why he has been sent to Madrid?”“No. I suppose it is owing to his family influence.”“Has Luçue told you nothing?”“Up to the present nothing.”She looked at him keenly. Was he fencing? No, she felt sure he was speaking the truth.“Then I will tell you. Guy Rossett is being sent to Spain because he has obtained some very important information about the brotherhood. They want him on the spot, as just now Madrid and Barcelona are two very active centres.”Moreno leaned forward, and looked at her steadily. He could not, at present, make up his mind about her. She was an Englishwoman living in fairly luxurious conditions. What had she in common with this anarchist crew.“Have you got any idea who gave him the information?”Violet Hargrave returned his keen glance with equal steadiness.“Not the slightest. But there are always traitors in any association of this kind.”“And when they are discovered, the penalty is death.” Moreno spoke quietly, but he felt an inward shiver. After all, was he so certain he was going to outwit Luçue and his brother fanatics.“The penalty is death. You have been initiated to-night, and you know that,” was Violet Hargrave’s answer.The journalist felt a little uneasy. He had suspected her. Did she, in turn, suspect him? But he preserved an unbroken front.“They deserve it,” he said, with unblushing audacity.Mrs Hargrave bent forward, and spoke with intensity.“Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Luçue and Mademoiselle Delmonte, from the few words I have exchanged with them to-night, have resolved on a certain course of action.”“Ah!” The journalist also bent forward, in an attitude of simulated eagerness.When Mrs Hargrave spoke again, she looked a different woman. Over her face came a hard, vindictive look. The dainty, almost doll-like prettiness had disappeared.“Guy Rossett must be got out of the way, before he can do much mischief.”And Moreno, with his swift intuition, at once grasped the situation. This slender, feminine thing, with her soft ways and graces, was a revengeful and scorned woman. She had loved Rossett, and he had refused to accept her love. He shuddered in his soul to think that the spirit of revenge could carry a woman to such lengths.But he had only to play his part. It would never do to let her know that he suspected, or the tigress’s claws would rend himself.“A regrettable but inexorable necessity,” he said calmly. “If Rossett menaces the schemes of the brotherhood, he must be got out of the way.”

At the period at which this story opens, there stood in Gerrard Street, Soho, a small, unpretentious restaurant, frequented almost exclusively by foreigners. Over the front was written the name of Maceda.

Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard, with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. The majority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen who found their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the same time, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept a wary eye upon Maceda and his friends.

It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners.

He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends.

Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda’s. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart.

The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand.

“How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well.”

For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word—it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly.

A sudden light came into the proprietor’s eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont.

“So you are with us, at last,” he said. “A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way.”

The restaurant keeper led him up a narrow staircase—the house was a very old one—to a big room on the second floor. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, on which were set bowls of flowers and dishes of fruit. Moreno looked around gratefully. As far as creature comforts went, he was going to have a pleasant evening. Maceda was evidently going to do his best.

Maceda pointed to a little side-room.

“It is there the initiation will be performed at seven. At half-past, dinner will be served. After dinner, the business of the meeting will take place. You are a bit early. I know this much, that you are here on the introduction of Emilio Luçue.”

“Quite right,” answered Moreno easily. “It was Luçue who persuaded me to the right way.”

Maceda raised his hands in admiration at the mention of that name.

“Ah, what a man, what a genius!” he cried in fervent tones. “If our cause ever triumphs, if the world-wide revolution is ever brought about—and sometimes, my friend, I feel very disheartened—it is men like Luçue who will make it a possibility.”

“Trust to Luçue,” answered Moreno, in his easy way. “If he can’t do it, nobody can.”

Maceda moved towards the door. “Excuse me that I can no longer keep you company. But business is business, you know. I must be there to welcome my patrons. Maceda’s restaurant is nothing without Maceda. You know that. My subordinates are good, and do their best, but it is my personality that keeps the thing going. If I am away for ten minutes, everything hangs fire.” Moreno waved a cheerful hand at him.

“Do not stand upon ceremony, my good old friend. I shall be quite happy here till the others arrive. No doubt I shall see you later.”

The proprietor walked to the door, with his long, slow stride.

“The three will be here at seven to initiate you. I shall run up for a few moments now and again during the dinner. The two men who will wait upon you are, of course, members of our society. I shall hope to be present, if only for a brief space, at the meeting. Once again, a thousand welcomes.”

Maceda shut the door carefully. Moreno was left alone, in the long, narrow room. He gave vent to a low whistle, when Maceda was out of earshot.

“The old boy takes it very seriously,” so ran his reflections. “I suppose they will all take it quite as seriously. Anyway, they intend to do themselves well. I wonder where the money comes from? And I further wonder if I shall meet anybody whom one would the least expect to find in such a venture.”

On the stroke of seven Luçue arrived, a fine, handsome man of imposing presence. He was accompanied by two men, one an Italian, the other a Russian. It was evidently going to be a meeting of many nations.

Luçue greeted the journalist with a friendly smile. “Ah, my friend, you are before us. That is a good sign. I hope you do not feel nervous.”

Moreno answered truthfully that he did not. The whole thing appealed greatly to his sense of humour. Here were a dozen anarchists, meeting in a small restaurant in Soho, and pluming themselves upon the idea that, from their obscure vantage-ground, they could blow up the world into fragments and overpower the forces of law and order, to bring it into accordance with their wild dreams.

The four men went into the ante-room. Here the solemn rights of initiation were performed with perfect seriousness. Afterwards, when he reflected on the subject, Moreno remembered that he had taken some very blood-curdling oaths.

His gay and easy temperament was not greatly affected by the fact. He had been in the pay of the Secret Service before; he was in its pay now. A man must take risks, if he wanted to make a good living. Besides, he loved adventure. If the apparently genial Luçue ever had cause to suspect him, then Luçue would stick a knife into his ribs without the slightest compunction. But he felt sure he was the cleverer of the two, and that Luçue would suspect every member of the fraternity before himself.

The somewhat tedious initiation over, the four men went into the dining-room. Most of the members had arrived. The two waiters were bringing up the soup.

Moreno recognised with a start the portly form of Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, the moneylender of Dover Street. Luçue had told him that the common language was French, in order to accommodate all nationalities.

Moreno addressed him. “I don’t think you remember me, Mr Jackson. I had the pleasure of introducing young Harry Mount Vernon to you some months ago, when he was wanting a little of the ready. He has always spoken in the highest terms of you.” Mr Jackson, always suave and genial, bowed and smiled. But it was evident he was searching the recesses of his memory.

Moreno helped him out of his difficulty.

“I am Andres Moreno, a Fleet Street journalist, who mixes with all sorts and conditions of men.”

“Ah, I remember now.” Jackson, to call him by his assumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. “And so, you are one of us?”

“Yes, very much so,” replied Moreno quietly.

“Our friend Luçue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful man.”

Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda.

“A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause triumphs, it will be due to him.” Another worshipper, thought Moreno, with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious, with a whole-hearted worship of their leader.

The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile.

“All here, except the two ladies,” he said. “We must wait for the ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience.”

As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman, the other as obviously an Englishwoman.

Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand.

“Always late, my dear Violet,” he said, “but better late than never.”

Then Luçue bustled up, and took the situation in hand.

“Now, Jackson, you mustn’t monopolise one of the two charming young women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish, his mother was English.”

The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the flower and fruit-laden table. Luçue, probably through inadvertence had not mentioned the woman’s name.

Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar to him.

And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English.

“Our good friend Luçue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?”

Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with suspicion.

“I think we had better talk in French, if you don’t mind—it is the rule here. It might annoy others if we didn’t. Where did you know me, and what do you know about me?”

Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease.

“I am a journalist, rather well-known in Fleet Street.”

“Yes, I know that,” answered Violet a little impatiently. “Luçue mentioned your name, and it is, as you say, a well-known one. But you have not answered my question. Where did you first know me?”

Moreno explained the little incident of the Albert Hall Bazaar.

“I see, then, you rather singled me out from the others,” said Mrs Hargrave, and this time the glance was more coquettish than suspicious. “But I am more interested in this—what do you know about me?”

Moreno put his cards on the table at once.

“We journalists pick up a lot of odd information. I know that you are an intimate friend of our friend Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, and one of us; and that to a certain extent you help him in his business, by introducing valuable clients.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?” Mrs Hargrave’s tone was quite friendly. She respected brains, and this dark-faced young Anglo-Spaniard was not only good-looking, but very clever. “Tell me some more.”

“Well, I know that you still live in Mount Street, that you married Jack Hargrave, who was never supposed by his friends to have any visible means of subsistence. Also that at one time, you were a great friend of Guy Rossett, the man who has just been appointed to Madrid.”

“Oh, then you know Guy Rossett?”

“No,” answered Moreno quietly. “I don’t move in such exalted circles. But I always hear of what is going on in high society, through my influential friends.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Have you many influential friends?” she asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in her pleasant, low-pitched voice.

A slight flush dyed Moreno’s swarthy cheek at what he considered her impertinent question.

“More perhaps than you would think possible,” he answered stiffly.

She read in his nettled tone that she had wounded hisamour propre. She hastened to make amends. She was always a little too prone to speak without reflection.

“Oh please don’t think I meant to be rude. But we soldiers of fortune, and all of us here are that, are not likely to have many friends in high places.”

The journalist paid her back in her own coin.

“Not real friends, of course. But still, we swim about in many cross currents. You yourself have a certain position in a certain section of what we might call semi-smart society.”

Violet Hargrave laughed good-humouredly. She was liberal-minded in this respect, that she seldom resented a thrust at herself when she had been the aggressor.

“Very neatly put. I have no illusions about my actual position. I am not sure that my particular circle is even semi-smart, except in its own estimation.”

So peace was restored between them, and they chatted gaily together during the progress of the meal. She had taken a great liking to the brainy young journalist. And Moreno, on his side, was forced to admit that she was a very attractive woman.

The grave and dignified Maceda, looking more like a nobleman than the proprietor of an obscure restaurant, came up a few times, and talked in confidential whispers with the principal guests. He chatted longest with Luçue and the handsome young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who, Moreno learned afterwards, stood high in the councils and the estimation of the society.

After dinner, the waiters withdrew, the men smoked, and the two ladies produced dainty cigarette cases. Then the business of the evening began.

The genial Luçue, who looked the least ferocious of anarchists, opened the proceedings. He gave a brief but lucid survey of what was going on abroad, of the methods by which the great gospel of freedom was being spread in different capitals.

The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who had dined well on the most expensive viands, delivered a fiery and passionate harangue against the great ones of the earth, the parasites and bloodsuckers who existed on the toil of their poorer brethren.

Her speech roused the assembly to enthusiasm, Mr Jackson being particularly fervent in his applause. No doubt, he believed himself to be a philanthropist, insomuch as he levied his exactions on the leisured classes; thus, in a measure, redressing the balance of human wrongs.

Moreno applauded with hardly less fervour than the moneylender, and he was pleased to note that the eloquent Valerie shot a grateful glance at him. He had already gained the confidence of Luçue. He felt sure, from the reception accorded her, that she was only second to the great man himself. If he could secure her good graces, his position would be safe.

Some business, not of great importance, was discussed. Certain projects were put to the vote. On one subject, Luçue and Mademoiselle Valerie dissented from the majority. Moreno decided with the two, and the majority reversed its verdict.

Violet Hargrave was, perhaps, the least enthusiastic of the party. Truth to tell, she was studying the young journalist very intently. He interested her greatly.

The proceedings ended. A meeting was arranged for next week at the same place, when two members of the brotherhood were expected to arrive from Barcelona with the latest reports of what was happening in Spain.

After a little desultory chatting in groups, Maceda’s guests prepared to depart.

Moreno held out his hand to Mrs Hargrave. He bore the air of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed himself, as in truth he had.

“A most delightful evening. I can only hope you will sit beside me next week. But that I fear is too much to hope for. I expect our good friend Luçue arranges these things with a sense of equity.”

Mrs Hargrave smiled. “I expect next time he will put you next to Mademoiselle Delmonte.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, she added abruptly, “Are you doing anything after this?”

“I was only going on to my club for an hour or two. We journalists are not very early birds.”

Mrs Hargrave spoke with her most charming smile. “Then get me a taxi, and drive with me to my flat in Mount Street. I should like to have a little chat with you.”

Moreno was delighted to accompany her. He was eager to know more of this fascinating and enigmatical woman. He was puzzled by her. How did she live; on what did she live? Was she at heart an anarchist? Or, sudden thought, was she playing the same game as himself? He had noticed her lack of enthusiasm over the events of the evening.

Arrived in Mount Street, she produced her latchkey, and ushered him into her luxurious flat, the abode of a well-off woman. She turned into the drawing-room, and switched on the electric light.

She threw her cloak on a chair and rang the bell. When the maid appeared in answer, she ordered her to bring refreshment.

She mixed a whiskey and soda for Moreno with her own slender dainty hands. She mixed a very small portion for herself, to keep him company.

“I very rarely take anything of this sort, just a glass of very light wine at lunch or dinner,” she explained. “But to-night is a somewhat exceptional one. To your health, Mr Moreno. I hope we may meet often.”

The journalist responded in suitable terms. He was very attracted by her, but he was not quite sure that he desired a close acquaintance. He had heard from his young friend Mount Vernon of her bridge parties, and the fact that people lost large sums of money there. She was evidently of a most hospitable nature, but she might prove a very expensive hostess.

They chatted for some time on different topics. Then, after a brief space, she suddenly burst out with a question.

“What do you know of Guy Rossett?”

Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “Next to nothing. I only know what everybody knows, that he has been sent to Madrid.”

Question and answer followed swiftly.

“Do you know why he has been sent to Madrid?”

“No. I suppose it is owing to his family influence.”

“Has Luçue told you nothing?”

“Up to the present nothing.”

She looked at him keenly. Was he fencing? No, she felt sure he was speaking the truth.

“Then I will tell you. Guy Rossett is being sent to Spain because he has obtained some very important information about the brotherhood. They want him on the spot, as just now Madrid and Barcelona are two very active centres.”

Moreno leaned forward, and looked at her steadily. He could not, at present, make up his mind about her. She was an Englishwoman living in fairly luxurious conditions. What had she in common with this anarchist crew.

“Have you got any idea who gave him the information?”

Violet Hargrave returned his keen glance with equal steadiness.

“Not the slightest. But there are always traitors in any association of this kind.”

“And when they are discovered, the penalty is death.” Moreno spoke quietly, but he felt an inward shiver. After all, was he so certain he was going to outwit Luçue and his brother fanatics.

“The penalty is death. You have been initiated to-night, and you know that,” was Violet Hargrave’s answer.

The journalist felt a little uneasy. He had suspected her. Did she, in turn, suspect him? But he preserved an unbroken front.

“They deserve it,” he said, with unblushing audacity.

Mrs Hargrave bent forward, and spoke with intensity.

“Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Luçue and Mademoiselle Delmonte, from the few words I have exchanged with them to-night, have resolved on a certain course of action.”

“Ah!” The journalist also bent forward, in an attitude of simulated eagerness.

When Mrs Hargrave spoke again, she looked a different woman. Over her face came a hard, vindictive look. The dainty, almost doll-like prettiness had disappeared.

“Guy Rossett must be got out of the way, before he can do much mischief.”

And Moreno, with his swift intuition, at once grasped the situation. This slender, feminine thing, with her soft ways and graces, was a revengeful and scorned woman. She had loved Rossett, and he had refused to accept her love. He shuddered in his soul to think that the spirit of revenge could carry a woman to such lengths.

But he had only to play his part. It would never do to let her know that he suspected, or the tigress’s claws would rend himself.

“A regrettable but inexorable necessity,” he said calmly. “If Rossett menaces the schemes of the brotherhood, he must be got out of the way.”

Chapter Six.“You got all this information from perfectly reliable sources, Rossett?”The question was asked by the Honourable Percy Stonehenge, His Majesty’s Ambassador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the Ambassador’s private room.“Perfectly reliable, sir. I have given you in strict confidence the names of my informants. They are not the sort of men who make mistakes.”Mr Stonehenge, true type of the urbane and courteous diplomatist, a man of old family, knitted his brow, and pondered a little before he spoke again.“I had a private letter from Greatorex about this matter. There is no doubt great activity everywhere, but especially in this country. Well, the information you have collected is most valuable. It will be given to the King and his advisers, and they must take the best measures they can.”Stonehenge shook his head sadly, after a prolonged pause. “Revolution, my dear fellow, is in the air all over Europe. Even in our commonsense and law-abiding country, there are ominous growlings and mutterings. Everywhere, the proletariat is getting out of hand. Sometimes I feel grateful that I am an old man, that what I dread is coming will not come in my time.”Rossett assented gravely. He was taking himself quite seriously now. His deep love for Isobel Clandon had purified him of light fancies. His promotion to this post at Madrid had suggested to him that he might bid adieu to frivolous pursuits, and do a man’s work in the world, prove himself a worthy citizen of that vast British Empire of which he was justly proud.Personally, he would have preferred Paris or Rome, or even Vienna. But, at the same time, he was greatly attracted by Spain.A small nation now, it had once been a great one, attaining its zenith under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It had produced great geniuses in the immortal domain of the arts—Cervantes, Lopez de Vega, Murillo.Once it had lain prostrate under the iron heel of the Conqueror. Napoleon, who had overrun all Europe, had subjugated the once invincible Spain, crushing her and governing her through the puppet King, his brother, Joseph Bonaparte.Then had come the time of liberation, and the thunder of the British guns, under the leadership of Wellington, had freed her from the foreign yoke.Rossett was very delighted with his chief, one of those sane men of affairs, a perfect aristocrat with just sufficient business instinct, who can safely be appointed to an important post. A man who thought clearly, saw far ahead, and made few mistakes, a man at once calm, temperate, and equable.This Ambassador, on his side, had welcomed him warmly. With the natural prejudice of his class, he always preferred his colleagues to come from the old governing families; they thought his thoughts, they spoke his language. If sometimes they lacked a little in brains and initiative, they had a large balance on the right side in deportment and integrity, two very important assets, especially in a monarchical country.Besides, he was an old friend of Lord Saxham. They had been colleagues together in their youth. Lord Saxham was of a too violent and volcanic temperament to rise high in the diplomatic or any other profession. Had he possessed a little more balance, he might have sat in many cabinets. But no Prime Minister who knew his business could run the risk of including him. But, none the less, he exercised a certain outside influence.Rossett wrote every day to his beloved Isobel; if he had time, long letters; if diplomatic affairs were pressing, short ones, assuring her of his unalterable affection. Isobel wrote every day also, most voluminous epistles, covering six or eight sheets of the flimsy notepaper.He wrote once a week to his dear sister, Mary, only second in his heart to Isobel. And Mary also replied at great length, but she was not quite so voluminous as Isobel. Her letters were generally taken up with reviewing, with her kind, gentle humour, the tantrums of her father, who appeared to be growing more explosive than ever.Rossett had exchanged one letter with his father, to which he got a reply. Lord Saxham was not a great letter-writer, he kept to the point, and used as few words as possible.“Glad to hear you are getting on with Stonehenge—a very good fellow! Stick to it, my dear boy, and I will work for you at this end with Greatorex. We shall see you an Ambassador yet.”Guy smiled when he got this brief reply. He knew as well as Mary that his father did not care twopence as to whether he got on in his profession or not. He was only glad his son was out in Spain, because his sojourn in that country separated him from Isobel Clandon. How frightfully obstinate he was!He often longed for his sweetheart, but still the days were very pleasant. He speedily found himself popular in the society of Madrid. He had been received graciously by the King, who knew England well, equally graciously by the Queen, in her maidenhood a Princess of our own British stock.One man in particular had sought to attach himself to him, a man a few years older than himself, a certain Duke del Pineda.Pineda was a handsome-looking fellow who bore himself well, dressed immaculately, and was received at Court and by the best society. Unquestionably, so far as birth and antecedents were concerned, he was a Spanish Grandee of the first water. And his manners were charming.But, all the same, there were certain whispers about him. To begin with, it was well-known that he was impecunious. And a Spanish duke, like an English one, is always looked at askance when he is suspected of impecuniosity. A Duke has no reason to be short of ready money.Stonehenge, who had watched the growing intimacy between the two men, spoke to Rossett one day about it.“You seem very great friends with Pineda, I observe, Guy.” The Ambassador had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name.Rossett looked at his chief squarely. “Yes, sir, we go about a good deal together. Of course, you have a reason in putting the question.”“He is not on the list of ‘suspects’ you gave me.”Guy smiled quietly. “No, but I think he will be very soon.”Mr Stonehenge gave a sigh of relief. “I see you know your business. I don’t know that Pineda has yet definitely decided, but he will swim with the tide. If there is a revolution he will try to lead it, like Mirabeau. In the meantime, he keeps in with both parties.”“I have led him on to a few disclosures already,” observed Rossett.“Ah, that is good. I can see that if you stick to it, you will fly high. Of course, you know he is as poor as a church mouse.”There was a little grimness in Rossett’s smile as he answered: “I am quite sure of that.” Stonehenge looked at him keenly. “Ah, I don’t want to be curious, but he has borrowed money of you?”The other nodded. “A trifle, sir. I thought it was worth it. I shall lose it, of course, and although I have done it in the interests of my country, I don’t suppose the Government will make it up to me.” The Ambassador laughed. “Virtue is its own reward in this profession, my dear Guy. They can subscribe any amount to the party funds, but they won’t give an extra penny to the men who serve them well. Anyway, I am glad you have taken the measure of Pineda. He has really no brains.”“An absolute ass,” corrected Rossett, “an absolute ass, with more than a normal share of vanity.”“A most accurate description,” assented the chief. “But, with his birth and connections, he might temporarily make a decent figurehead. Monarchies have had theirrois fainéants. Revolutions when they start have upper class and middle-class puppets to lead them. Afterwards, as we know, these are displaced by the extreme element.”Rossett had found no difficulty in financing the impecunious Spanish grandee. For Great-Aunt Henrietta, on hearing of his promotion, had forwarded him a very substantial cheque.Out of this, he had paid off Mr Jackson, and was able to take up his new post with a clean sheet. Needless to say that his sister Mary, the most honourable of women, was delighted at the position of affairs.While events were progressing in Spain, Moreno the journalist had called on his old friend Farquhar at the familiar chambers in the Temple. It was a few days after Moreno’s initiation into the brotherhood by Luçue—the initiation which had been followed by that very significant interview with Violet Hargrave.The visitor’s keen glance detected at once that his old friend looked gloomy and depressed. And, in truth, Farquhar was in no jubilant mood. His rejection by his pretty cousin, Isobel, the knowledge that another man had secured what he so coveted, was weighing upon him heavily.He pulled himself together on Moreno’s entrance, and extended a cordial hand. He was a very reticent man, and always hid his feelings as much as possible.“Great things have happened since I last saw you, my friend,” cried the journalist gaily. “I am now a full-fledged member of the brotherhood, the great brotherhood. You remember I told you I was going to be initiated?”Yes, Farquhar remembered. Moreno had mentioned the fact, and he had been interested. He had thought at the time his friend was running great risks, but no doubt the journalist was playing his own game in his own subtle way.Since that conversation, his own affairs had made him forgetful of everything save the daily duties of his profession, duties which he never neglected.He smiled genially. “When are you going to blow us all up? You haven’t brought a bomb in your pocket by any chance?”Moreno shook his head. “Much too crude, my good old friend. We work in a more subtle way than that, by peaceful and pacific means.”He knew Maurice Farquhar well enough, so sure was he of the sterling character of the man, to trust him with his life. This reserved, somewhat priggish barrister would no more reveal a confidence than a Roman Catholic priest would betray the secrets of the confessional.At the same time a man in his delicate and dangerous position must be doubly and trebly cautious. He must put even Farquhar off the scent, till the day arrived when he could speak freely.He spoke a moment after, in a rather abrupt tone. “Forgive me for putting a certain question to you, and, believe me, it is not dictated from any spirit of impertinent curiosity. You remember our meeting your cousin and Guy Rossett? I told you I formed certain conclusions with regard to their relationship. Have you by any chance had an opportunity of testing the accuracy of the opinion I formed?”For a moment Farquhar was at the point of telling this most inquisitive journalist to mind his own business, and not to pry into matters that, to all appearances, were no concern of his.Then he remembered that he had known the man for many years, and during the period of a very intimate acquaintance he had never known him guilty of a breach of good taste.Moreno had expressly stated he was animated with no spirit of impertinent curiosity. In short, he had apologised for putting the question. He then had some subtle and convincing reason for putting it.Farquhar spoke more frankly than he had at first thought would be possible under the circumstances.“After what you said, I made it my business to inquire. I am very greatly attached to my uncle and cousin. Whatever affects the welfare of either is deeply interesting to me.”He paused a few seconds. It was hard to admit to Moreno that his suspicions were justified. And he was gaining a little time by expressing himself in these cautious and judicial words, words of course which told the keen young journalist what he wanted to know, without need of further speech.“It is, as you surmised, an absolute secret to all but a very few,” resumed Farquhar, after that brief pause. “You diagnosed the situation perfectly. Rossett’s father is, at the present moment, the stumbling-block.”“Thanks for your perfect frankness,” answered Moreno easily. The next question was one still more difficult to put, for he had guessed the situation as regards Farquhar quite easily. The barrister was in love with Isobel Clandon himself, had delayed too long in his wooing, and too late learned the bitter truth, that a more enterprising lover had carried her off.“I take it that since you are greatly attached to your cousin, as well as your uncle, you would be disposed to help Rossett, in the event of his needing a friend?”There was no reserve in the voice that replied.“Yes, any man whom my cousin loves, whether he is her lover or husband, will find in me a friend.”Moreno nodded his head. He could not say how much he appreciated this attitude, for he was sure that Farquhar was genuinely in love with Isobel. And he was sure now of what he had known all along, that the man was perfectly straight and honest, devoid of any petty or dishonouring meanness. Self-sacrifice could go no further than this—to assist Isobel’s lover.“I am very glad to hear that, Farquhar. For the moment, my lips are sealed. Even to you, my greatest friend, I cannot tell all. But the day may come when danger will threaten Guy Rossett. It will be well then to know who are the friends on whom he can rely. It may be, when that day comes, you can help, perhaps you cannot. But, if you can, I shall count upon you.”“I have given you my promise,” replied Farquhar simply. “For the sake of Isobel Clandon, I will help Guy Rossett, if my assistance is of any use.”A couple of hours later, Moreno left his friend’s chambers, after talking on other and impersonal subjects.Shortly after that interview between the two men, there was a meeting at Maceda’s restaurant. It was a special function, convened especially by the great Luçue himself. There were only six people present, the chief himself, Maceda, who, on this very particular occasion, had delegated the conduct of his establishment to his second in command, Jackson, otherwise Jacques the moneylender, the Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, Violet Hargrave, and Andres Moreno, the latest recruit.The repast this time was of a much simpler nature. It lacked the elegance and profusion characteristic of the ordinary assemblages, when the affairs of the brotherhood was discussed in a general fashion. It was evident from these symptoms, concluded Moreno, that something of importance, some stern business was in the air.When the comparatively simple meal had been finished; Luçue opened the proceedings, speaking as usual in French.“I had hoped that our brother from Barcelona, Jaime Alvedero, would have been with us to-night,” he explained to his fellow-conspirators. “But grave affairs have detained him. He is, as you know, technically my superior, but he has written to me, authorising me to act with full authority in this very important matter of Guy Rossett. For the benefit of our latest member, Andres Moreno, I will just explain how, at the present moment, this young Englishman is a serious menace to the brotherhood.”Moreno looked expectantly in his chief’s direction. He already knew a great deal of what Luçue was going to explain at length for the journalist’s benefit, but he was too wide-awake to betray this. He appeared profoundly moved by his chief’s disclosures.He assumed an expression of the greatest gravity when Luçue had finished, for he knew that this apparently genial and most astute person was watching him narrowly.“It is a very serious menace, his appointment to the Court of Spain, as he will be on the spot,” he commented quietly at the conclusion of the long harangue. “It must be counteracted in some way and speedily. As the newest member of this association, it does not become me to offer suggestions. I leave these to wiser and more experienced heads.” He looked meaningly at the other three men, who he knew were the acknowledged chiefs of this particular section of the great brotherhood.Luçue indulged in a smile of approval. Like most great men, he was not a little vain, and easily won by judicious flattery.“Our brother Moreno is very modest,” he said pleasantly. “But I have no doubt in a short space we shall find him one of our wisest counsellors. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a short way with people who try to thwart our well-laid plans.”Moreno played splendidly. He knew that, as the newest recruit, and with English blood running in his veins, he had to justify himself.“That is true statesmanship,” he said, in a voice of deep conviction. “For although, for the time, we do not hold the reins of power, I am convinced that we are better and more far-seeing statesmen than those whom at the moment misgovern and oppress the world.”There was loud applause at this speech. The good-looking Frenchwoman clapped her hands loudly. Jackson and Maceda grunted audible approval. Luçue’s aspect grew more benign. Violet Hargrave smiled her charming smile, which might mean anything, approval or disapproval. At least, so Moreno thought.He was not quite sure of her yet. Was she, through some inexplicable warp of temperament, devoted heart and soul to the schemes of this infamous association, or was she, like himself, playing a double game?“Since we are all united on our policy,” broke in Luçue’s bland tones, “it only remains to settle the means.”There was a stir in the small assembly. The Frenchwoman leaned forward eagerly; Moreno did the same. He had no doubt of her fidelity to the cause. He could not follow a safer guide.But after a longer discussion, they were unable to form any settled plan. They all felt it was almost impossible to engineer the matter from England. Finally, they agreed to refer it back to Alvedero, who had the advantage of being on the spot.Then Luçue made a suggestion. “I propose that our comrades, Violet Hargrave and Andres Moreno, set out for Spain to confer with the leaders there. I suggest them for this reason—being partly English, they will be able to move about more freely, be less liable to suspicion on account of that fact.”Moreno and Violet Hargrave nodded their heads in confirmation of their acceptance of the task assigned them.Moreno shuddered inwardly, as he recalled the blood-curdling oaths which had been administered to him. On Violet Hargrave’s face had come a sudden expression which he could not quite define. He was inclined to think that it reflected a certain happiness in the prospect of doing harm to Guy Rossett.The meeting broke up, and they went down the stairs together. When they reached the door, Violet spoke.“Come to my flat to-night, as you did when you were first initiated,” she said, in the voice that sounded so sweet and womanly. “It is evident that you and I are going to be very closely associated,”—she shot at him a coquettish glance—“whether you desire it or not.”A man wholly Spanish on his father’s side was not likely to be deficient in gallantry.“There is nothing I desire more, Mrs Hargrave. Apart from the importance of our common aims and aspirations, there is nothing in our brief association with the brotherhood that has given me greater pleasure than the fact that I have been enabled to make your acquaintance.”They hailed a passing taxi, stepped in, and drove to the flat in Mount Street.

“You got all this information from perfectly reliable sources, Rossett?”

The question was asked by the Honourable Percy Stonehenge, His Majesty’s Ambassador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the Ambassador’s private room.

“Perfectly reliable, sir. I have given you in strict confidence the names of my informants. They are not the sort of men who make mistakes.”

Mr Stonehenge, true type of the urbane and courteous diplomatist, a man of old family, knitted his brow, and pondered a little before he spoke again.

“I had a private letter from Greatorex about this matter. There is no doubt great activity everywhere, but especially in this country. Well, the information you have collected is most valuable. It will be given to the King and his advisers, and they must take the best measures they can.”

Stonehenge shook his head sadly, after a prolonged pause. “Revolution, my dear fellow, is in the air all over Europe. Even in our commonsense and law-abiding country, there are ominous growlings and mutterings. Everywhere, the proletariat is getting out of hand. Sometimes I feel grateful that I am an old man, that what I dread is coming will not come in my time.”

Rossett assented gravely. He was taking himself quite seriously now. His deep love for Isobel Clandon had purified him of light fancies. His promotion to this post at Madrid had suggested to him that he might bid adieu to frivolous pursuits, and do a man’s work in the world, prove himself a worthy citizen of that vast British Empire of which he was justly proud.

Personally, he would have preferred Paris or Rome, or even Vienna. But, at the same time, he was greatly attracted by Spain.

A small nation now, it had once been a great one, attaining its zenith under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It had produced great geniuses in the immortal domain of the arts—Cervantes, Lopez de Vega, Murillo.

Once it had lain prostrate under the iron heel of the Conqueror. Napoleon, who had overrun all Europe, had subjugated the once invincible Spain, crushing her and governing her through the puppet King, his brother, Joseph Bonaparte.

Then had come the time of liberation, and the thunder of the British guns, under the leadership of Wellington, had freed her from the foreign yoke.

Rossett was very delighted with his chief, one of those sane men of affairs, a perfect aristocrat with just sufficient business instinct, who can safely be appointed to an important post. A man who thought clearly, saw far ahead, and made few mistakes, a man at once calm, temperate, and equable.

This Ambassador, on his side, had welcomed him warmly. With the natural prejudice of his class, he always preferred his colleagues to come from the old governing families; they thought his thoughts, they spoke his language. If sometimes they lacked a little in brains and initiative, they had a large balance on the right side in deportment and integrity, two very important assets, especially in a monarchical country.

Besides, he was an old friend of Lord Saxham. They had been colleagues together in their youth. Lord Saxham was of a too violent and volcanic temperament to rise high in the diplomatic or any other profession. Had he possessed a little more balance, he might have sat in many cabinets. But no Prime Minister who knew his business could run the risk of including him. But, none the less, he exercised a certain outside influence.

Rossett wrote every day to his beloved Isobel; if he had time, long letters; if diplomatic affairs were pressing, short ones, assuring her of his unalterable affection. Isobel wrote every day also, most voluminous epistles, covering six or eight sheets of the flimsy notepaper.

He wrote once a week to his dear sister, Mary, only second in his heart to Isobel. And Mary also replied at great length, but she was not quite so voluminous as Isobel. Her letters were generally taken up with reviewing, with her kind, gentle humour, the tantrums of her father, who appeared to be growing more explosive than ever.

Rossett had exchanged one letter with his father, to which he got a reply. Lord Saxham was not a great letter-writer, he kept to the point, and used as few words as possible.

“Glad to hear you are getting on with Stonehenge—a very good fellow! Stick to it, my dear boy, and I will work for you at this end with Greatorex. We shall see you an Ambassador yet.”

Guy smiled when he got this brief reply. He knew as well as Mary that his father did not care twopence as to whether he got on in his profession or not. He was only glad his son was out in Spain, because his sojourn in that country separated him from Isobel Clandon. How frightfully obstinate he was!

He often longed for his sweetheart, but still the days were very pleasant. He speedily found himself popular in the society of Madrid. He had been received graciously by the King, who knew England well, equally graciously by the Queen, in her maidenhood a Princess of our own British stock.

One man in particular had sought to attach himself to him, a man a few years older than himself, a certain Duke del Pineda.

Pineda was a handsome-looking fellow who bore himself well, dressed immaculately, and was received at Court and by the best society. Unquestionably, so far as birth and antecedents were concerned, he was a Spanish Grandee of the first water. And his manners were charming.

But, all the same, there were certain whispers about him. To begin with, it was well-known that he was impecunious. And a Spanish duke, like an English one, is always looked at askance when he is suspected of impecuniosity. A Duke has no reason to be short of ready money.

Stonehenge, who had watched the growing intimacy between the two men, spoke to Rossett one day about it.

“You seem very great friends with Pineda, I observe, Guy.” The Ambassador had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name.

Rossett looked at his chief squarely. “Yes, sir, we go about a good deal together. Of course, you have a reason in putting the question.”

“He is not on the list of ‘suspects’ you gave me.”

Guy smiled quietly. “No, but I think he will be very soon.”

Mr Stonehenge gave a sigh of relief. “I see you know your business. I don’t know that Pineda has yet definitely decided, but he will swim with the tide. If there is a revolution he will try to lead it, like Mirabeau. In the meantime, he keeps in with both parties.”

“I have led him on to a few disclosures already,” observed Rossett.

“Ah, that is good. I can see that if you stick to it, you will fly high. Of course, you know he is as poor as a church mouse.”

There was a little grimness in Rossett’s smile as he answered: “I am quite sure of that.” Stonehenge looked at him keenly. “Ah, I don’t want to be curious, but he has borrowed money of you?”

The other nodded. “A trifle, sir. I thought it was worth it. I shall lose it, of course, and although I have done it in the interests of my country, I don’t suppose the Government will make it up to me.” The Ambassador laughed. “Virtue is its own reward in this profession, my dear Guy. They can subscribe any amount to the party funds, but they won’t give an extra penny to the men who serve them well. Anyway, I am glad you have taken the measure of Pineda. He has really no brains.”

“An absolute ass,” corrected Rossett, “an absolute ass, with more than a normal share of vanity.”

“A most accurate description,” assented the chief. “But, with his birth and connections, he might temporarily make a decent figurehead. Monarchies have had theirrois fainéants. Revolutions when they start have upper class and middle-class puppets to lead them. Afterwards, as we know, these are displaced by the extreme element.”

Rossett had found no difficulty in financing the impecunious Spanish grandee. For Great-Aunt Henrietta, on hearing of his promotion, had forwarded him a very substantial cheque.

Out of this, he had paid off Mr Jackson, and was able to take up his new post with a clean sheet. Needless to say that his sister Mary, the most honourable of women, was delighted at the position of affairs.

While events were progressing in Spain, Moreno the journalist had called on his old friend Farquhar at the familiar chambers in the Temple. It was a few days after Moreno’s initiation into the brotherhood by Luçue—the initiation which had been followed by that very significant interview with Violet Hargrave.

The visitor’s keen glance detected at once that his old friend looked gloomy and depressed. And, in truth, Farquhar was in no jubilant mood. His rejection by his pretty cousin, Isobel, the knowledge that another man had secured what he so coveted, was weighing upon him heavily.

He pulled himself together on Moreno’s entrance, and extended a cordial hand. He was a very reticent man, and always hid his feelings as much as possible.

“Great things have happened since I last saw you, my friend,” cried the journalist gaily. “I am now a full-fledged member of the brotherhood, the great brotherhood. You remember I told you I was going to be initiated?”

Yes, Farquhar remembered. Moreno had mentioned the fact, and he had been interested. He had thought at the time his friend was running great risks, but no doubt the journalist was playing his own game in his own subtle way.

Since that conversation, his own affairs had made him forgetful of everything save the daily duties of his profession, duties which he never neglected.

He smiled genially. “When are you going to blow us all up? You haven’t brought a bomb in your pocket by any chance?”

Moreno shook his head. “Much too crude, my good old friend. We work in a more subtle way than that, by peaceful and pacific means.”

He knew Maurice Farquhar well enough, so sure was he of the sterling character of the man, to trust him with his life. This reserved, somewhat priggish barrister would no more reveal a confidence than a Roman Catholic priest would betray the secrets of the confessional.

At the same time a man in his delicate and dangerous position must be doubly and trebly cautious. He must put even Farquhar off the scent, till the day arrived when he could speak freely.

He spoke a moment after, in a rather abrupt tone. “Forgive me for putting a certain question to you, and, believe me, it is not dictated from any spirit of impertinent curiosity. You remember our meeting your cousin and Guy Rossett? I told you I formed certain conclusions with regard to their relationship. Have you by any chance had an opportunity of testing the accuracy of the opinion I formed?”

For a moment Farquhar was at the point of telling this most inquisitive journalist to mind his own business, and not to pry into matters that, to all appearances, were no concern of his.

Then he remembered that he had known the man for many years, and during the period of a very intimate acquaintance he had never known him guilty of a breach of good taste.

Moreno had expressly stated he was animated with no spirit of impertinent curiosity. In short, he had apologised for putting the question. He then had some subtle and convincing reason for putting it.

Farquhar spoke more frankly than he had at first thought would be possible under the circumstances.

“After what you said, I made it my business to inquire. I am very greatly attached to my uncle and cousin. Whatever affects the welfare of either is deeply interesting to me.”

He paused a few seconds. It was hard to admit to Moreno that his suspicions were justified. And he was gaining a little time by expressing himself in these cautious and judicial words, words of course which told the keen young journalist what he wanted to know, without need of further speech.

“It is, as you surmised, an absolute secret to all but a very few,” resumed Farquhar, after that brief pause. “You diagnosed the situation perfectly. Rossett’s father is, at the present moment, the stumbling-block.”

“Thanks for your perfect frankness,” answered Moreno easily. The next question was one still more difficult to put, for he had guessed the situation as regards Farquhar quite easily. The barrister was in love with Isobel Clandon himself, had delayed too long in his wooing, and too late learned the bitter truth, that a more enterprising lover had carried her off.

“I take it that since you are greatly attached to your cousin, as well as your uncle, you would be disposed to help Rossett, in the event of his needing a friend?”

There was no reserve in the voice that replied.

“Yes, any man whom my cousin loves, whether he is her lover or husband, will find in me a friend.”

Moreno nodded his head. He could not say how much he appreciated this attitude, for he was sure that Farquhar was genuinely in love with Isobel. And he was sure now of what he had known all along, that the man was perfectly straight and honest, devoid of any petty or dishonouring meanness. Self-sacrifice could go no further than this—to assist Isobel’s lover.

“I am very glad to hear that, Farquhar. For the moment, my lips are sealed. Even to you, my greatest friend, I cannot tell all. But the day may come when danger will threaten Guy Rossett. It will be well then to know who are the friends on whom he can rely. It may be, when that day comes, you can help, perhaps you cannot. But, if you can, I shall count upon you.”

“I have given you my promise,” replied Farquhar simply. “For the sake of Isobel Clandon, I will help Guy Rossett, if my assistance is of any use.”

A couple of hours later, Moreno left his friend’s chambers, after talking on other and impersonal subjects.

Shortly after that interview between the two men, there was a meeting at Maceda’s restaurant. It was a special function, convened especially by the great Luçue himself. There were only six people present, the chief himself, Maceda, who, on this very particular occasion, had delegated the conduct of his establishment to his second in command, Jackson, otherwise Jacques the moneylender, the Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, Violet Hargrave, and Andres Moreno, the latest recruit.

The repast this time was of a much simpler nature. It lacked the elegance and profusion characteristic of the ordinary assemblages, when the affairs of the brotherhood was discussed in a general fashion. It was evident from these symptoms, concluded Moreno, that something of importance, some stern business was in the air.

When the comparatively simple meal had been finished; Luçue opened the proceedings, speaking as usual in French.

“I had hoped that our brother from Barcelona, Jaime Alvedero, would have been with us to-night,” he explained to his fellow-conspirators. “But grave affairs have detained him. He is, as you know, technically my superior, but he has written to me, authorising me to act with full authority in this very important matter of Guy Rossett. For the benefit of our latest member, Andres Moreno, I will just explain how, at the present moment, this young Englishman is a serious menace to the brotherhood.”

Moreno looked expectantly in his chief’s direction. He already knew a great deal of what Luçue was going to explain at length for the journalist’s benefit, but he was too wide-awake to betray this. He appeared profoundly moved by his chief’s disclosures.

He assumed an expression of the greatest gravity when Luçue had finished, for he knew that this apparently genial and most astute person was watching him narrowly.

“It is a very serious menace, his appointment to the Court of Spain, as he will be on the spot,” he commented quietly at the conclusion of the long harangue. “It must be counteracted in some way and speedily. As the newest member of this association, it does not become me to offer suggestions. I leave these to wiser and more experienced heads.” He looked meaningly at the other three men, who he knew were the acknowledged chiefs of this particular section of the great brotherhood.

Luçue indulged in a smile of approval. Like most great men, he was not a little vain, and easily won by judicious flattery.

“Our brother Moreno is very modest,” he said pleasantly. “But I have no doubt in a short space we shall find him one of our wisest counsellors. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a short way with people who try to thwart our well-laid plans.”

Moreno played splendidly. He knew that, as the newest recruit, and with English blood running in his veins, he had to justify himself.

“That is true statesmanship,” he said, in a voice of deep conviction. “For although, for the time, we do not hold the reins of power, I am convinced that we are better and more far-seeing statesmen than those whom at the moment misgovern and oppress the world.”

There was loud applause at this speech. The good-looking Frenchwoman clapped her hands loudly. Jackson and Maceda grunted audible approval. Luçue’s aspect grew more benign. Violet Hargrave smiled her charming smile, which might mean anything, approval or disapproval. At least, so Moreno thought.

He was not quite sure of her yet. Was she, through some inexplicable warp of temperament, devoted heart and soul to the schemes of this infamous association, or was she, like himself, playing a double game?

“Since we are all united on our policy,” broke in Luçue’s bland tones, “it only remains to settle the means.”

There was a stir in the small assembly. The Frenchwoman leaned forward eagerly; Moreno did the same. He had no doubt of her fidelity to the cause. He could not follow a safer guide.

But after a longer discussion, they were unable to form any settled plan. They all felt it was almost impossible to engineer the matter from England. Finally, they agreed to refer it back to Alvedero, who had the advantage of being on the spot.

Then Luçue made a suggestion. “I propose that our comrades, Violet Hargrave and Andres Moreno, set out for Spain to confer with the leaders there. I suggest them for this reason—being partly English, they will be able to move about more freely, be less liable to suspicion on account of that fact.”

Moreno and Violet Hargrave nodded their heads in confirmation of their acceptance of the task assigned them.

Moreno shuddered inwardly, as he recalled the blood-curdling oaths which had been administered to him. On Violet Hargrave’s face had come a sudden expression which he could not quite define. He was inclined to think that it reflected a certain happiness in the prospect of doing harm to Guy Rossett.

The meeting broke up, and they went down the stairs together. When they reached the door, Violet spoke.

“Come to my flat to-night, as you did when you were first initiated,” she said, in the voice that sounded so sweet and womanly. “It is evident that you and I are going to be very closely associated,”—she shot at him a coquettish glance—“whether you desire it or not.”

A man wholly Spanish on his father’s side was not likely to be deficient in gallantry.

“There is nothing I desire more, Mrs Hargrave. Apart from the importance of our common aims and aspirations, there is nothing in our brief association with the brotherhood that has given me greater pleasure than the fact that I have been enabled to make your acquaintance.”

They hailed a passing taxi, stepped in, and drove to the flat in Mount Street.

Chapter Seven.Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the lower quarters of Madrid.One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular rôle. The danger that he ran added a spice to his enjoyment.The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman.That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus:“Dear Mr Rossett,—You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy, when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like to have a brief chat with you this afternoon.”The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable quarters of the town.He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew’s associate, a man of whom Guy had some recollection.The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard.Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended working-man. Moreno waved it away.“We will have cigarettes, if you please,” he said, in a low voice. “Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble and unprosperous working-man.”Rossett bowed to his companion’s superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.“Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post.”Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted.“Do you mind explaining a little more fully,” he said cautiously.Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other’s caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.“My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?” Guy nodded. “So far, you are right.”It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett’s promotion, for certain private reasons.“I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment.” Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming.“I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter.”Moreno assented blandly. “Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy.”“What do you know, or guess?” asked Rossett angrily.“Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for, in the double rôle I am playing, I have to be very cautious.”“Please go on,” said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident sincerity of his companion.“For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care.”“Yes, I know that,” assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations. Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably well informed.“I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very good advice?” was the Spaniard’s startling question.Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties.“I will tell you when you have offered it,” answered the young diplomat curtly.A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily away, speaking in Spanish.“One of the gang,” he whispered to Rossett. “The city is honeycombed with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English.”He paused a moment before he spoke again.“My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand.”“Why should I do this?” queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. “Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave.”For a second, Rossett’s face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near.“Why, why?” he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background.Moreno looked in the same direction. “You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog’s chance.”Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. “I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst.”“Think of the girl you love,” pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him.A spasm of pain crossed Rossett’s face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed?“I will stay,” he said doggedly. “And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety.”Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. “You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal,” he said, “but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England.”“I go back in honour, not as a fugitive,” answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant.“If that man had known who you were,” observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, “he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on.”And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question.“But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?”Moreno smiled his subtle smile. “My dear friend, I am sending weekly articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally delightful population. In short, I am ‘booming’ Spain. I am the innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday.”Rossett smiled. “You are a very wonderful man.Au revoir.”That night three letters were written to London. One was from Guy addressed to his sister, and it contained the important question, had his father anything to do with his appointment to Madrid; in other words, did he owe his promotion to anything except his own merits?Mary’s reply came back in due course. It was distinctly conciliatory and diplomatic. But, as Mary was not very adapt at telling a lie, the truth peeped through. It was evident to Guy that Lord Saxham had exercised his influence to get his son to Spain, with the view of separating him from Isobel; Guy felt very bitter towards his father. He felt it was something in the nature of a dirty trick, diplomatic perhaps, but none the less of a questionable nature.Moreno wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Mary Rossett. He had not even been introduced to that charming young woman, but such an elementary fact as that did not deter him. He explained who he was, he recalled the evening at the Savoy. He pointed out that her brother was in great danger, and that she should use all the influence of her family to get Guy recalled on some pretext or another. He added that he had met Guy in Madrid and urged this course upon him, that Guy on scenting danger, with the stubborn pride of the Englishman, had refused to abandon his post.The second letter he sent to the head of the English Secret Service with a request that it should be shown to Greatorex. The motive of the second letter was the same as the first, that Guy Rossett should be got out of harm’s way, before an anarchist knife should be dug in his ribs.Mary took the letter to her father. She was very genuinely alarmed; she also had a faint recollection of the swarthy young Spaniard who had sat at an adjoining table on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. He had mentioned in his letter that he was a member of the Secret Service. She was disposed to trust him.She thrust the letter into Lord Saxham’s hand with an almost tragic gesture.“Now, father, you can see what you have done by sending him over to Spain. That wily old Greatorex wanted to use him just for his own purpose, and you fell in pat with his scheme.”Lord Saxham read the letter, and his face blanched. “Oh, my poor boy,” he groaned.His daughter loved him, but at the bottom of her heart there was always a little good-humoured contempt. He was so terribly weak. Headstrong, violent, and explosive, but always weak.Lady Mary spoke irritably; she was tender and compassionate, but not in the least weak.“We have got to act, father, and act immediately. Guy must come back at once. You must see this artful old Greatorex to-morrow.”Saxham promised that he would see Greatorex to-morrow. He ’phoned up that important personage, and fixed an appointment.The two men met. By that time Greatorex had received Moreno’s letter from the head of the Secret Service. He knew, therefore, exactly what his old friend Lord Saxham had come about.The Earl began in his usual explosive manner. “By God, Greatorex, you haven’t treated me well in this matter. You have sent my poor boy to his death.”If Lord Saxham had been a less important member of the aristocracy, the imperturbable Greatorex would have shown him the door. But under the circumstances forbearance had to be exercised.“Softly, softly, if you please, my dear Saxham. It was at your request I sent your son to Spain, to get him out of an unfortunate entanglement.”“I know, I know,” spluttered the Earl, never very great in argument, “but I didn’t know he was going to his death.”“No, more did I,” replied Greatorex, speaking with his usual calm. “Now let us be reasonable and avoid indulging in mutual recriminations which irritate both parties. What do you want me to do?”“Recall him at once,” thundered Lord Saxham.“One moment, if you please,” said Greatorex quietly. “We have got to consider Guy’s views on this matter. I have here a confidential communication from a very trusted member of our Secret Service. He has warned Guy of his danger, put all the possibilities and probabilities before him, and Guy refuses to budge. In short, he declines to run away. What have you got to say to that?”“Then I say he is a most infernal fool,” cried Lord Saxham in his most explosive manner. Greatorex’s lip curled a little.“Perhaps from your point of view. Shall I give you mine?”“If you like,” said Saxham sullenly. He was not so dense that he could not see what was in the other man’s mind.“He is a very brave young Englishman of the true bulldog breed, who is going to stick to his post oblivious of the consequences. It is that breed that makes the British Empire what it is. Do you still want me to recall him?”“Yes,” spluttered the Earl. “I want him recalled. I don’t intend him to be done to death by a dirty Spanish anarchist.”Greatorex’s look was very disdainful.“I will be on the wires all day with Stonehenge and Guy. If he consents to be recalled on any pretext, I will recall him. But please understand me, Saxham; he shall only be recalled with his own consent. I will go no further.”The tall, lean man stood up, and towered over the somewhat blustering Lord Saxham.“You can recall him, whether he consents or not,” cried the angry father, “if you choose.”“In this case I am not going to exercise my prerogative. It is no use arguing, Saxham. On this point my mind is made up. I will only add that I greatly admire your son’s attitude. If he sticks to this business, he will have a great career before him.”“Unless he is murdered to-morrow,” commented Saxham bitterly, as he walked out of the room.The poor old Earl went back to Ticehurst Park in a very agitated frame of mind. Lady Mary was his favourite child, but Guy was his best beloved son. Ticehurst would inherit the lands and the title, but for Ticehurst he had only a very mild liking.Mary met him in the hall. She was only a little less perturbed than her father.“What news?” she cried eagerly. “Have you induced Greatorex to recall him?”Lord Saxham had to confess to failure. He went with her into the morning-room, and related at full length the details of his interview with Greatorex. That powerful personage was ready to fall in with his views—but the stumbling-block was Guy himself. If Guy stuck to his resolution not to seek safety in flight, Greatorex would not move.Mary’s sweet eyes filled with tears. She had already abused Greatorex, but she was too just not to understand his attitude. At the bottom of his heart, Greatorex approved of Guy’s resolution to stick to his post, whatever the consequences.“I am sorry I said harsh things of Greatorex,” she said in a broken voice. “Of course Guy himself could take no other course, and his chief admires his indomitable spirit. But, all the same, we must move heaven and earth to get him away.”The Earl sank wearily into a chair. Presently he began to cry and moan. “Oh, my poor boy. To think I have exposed him to this danger by my ill-advised action.”Poor Lady Mary was on the verge of hysteria herself, but the senile grief of the old Earl made her strong and self-reliant. Her brain was working quickly. Could she not turn this moment to advantage?“You are sorry for what you have done, father? You recognise that, but for your unfortunate intervention, Guy would never have gone to Spain.”“I know, I know,” replied poor old Lord Saxham in quavering accents. “I would cut off my right hand if, by doing so, I could undo that morning’s work with Greatorex. I was very proud of it at the time.”Mary spoke very slowly, very calmly. “Guy has got in him the Rossett obstinacy, and, after all, he is only acting as a brave man should. We are less brave for him than he is for himself.”The Earl stretched out his shaking hands.“Mary, will you write and implore him to let Greatorex recall him. Greatorex has given me his promise to do so, if Guy consents.”Mary shook her head. “Guy is very fond of me, I know. In many things I could influence him, but not in this. It is no use your writing to him, you have less influence over him than I. If he would not listen to me, he will not listen to you.”“Then he is doomed.” The poor old Earl’s head sank on his breast, and he surrendered himself to despair.And now had come Mary’s great opportunity, and she took advantage of it. She was no mean diplomatist at any time.“I shall not move him, you will not move him. And you say you cannot move Greatorex. There is just one person in the world who might persuade him. I am not quite sure even about her.”Lord Saxham was very subdued, very penitent, but there was still some of the old Adam left in him. He answered quickly; the voice was still quavering, but there was in it a querulous note.“You mean that—”Lady Mary lifted a warning finger; she knew he was going to say “minx.”“Father, please, this is no time for old and foolish animosities. Guy’s life is at stake, through his noble, perhaps exaggerated, sense of honour. You and I are powerless to alter his determination. There is just a chance that Isobel will be more successful. Will you put your pride in your pocket and ask her to plead with him?”It was a hard struggle, but in the end Lord Saxham’s affection for his son won. The old aristocrat gave in.“Do what you like, Mary. I will consent to anything to get Guy back.”Mary moved swiftly to the writing-table. “I shall ask her and her father to come to us to-morrow for a visit with the view of your sanctioning her engagement to Guy. I shall ask her to wire their acceptance.”The Earl sat as in a dream, while she wrote; dimly he realised that events had taken a turn which he could not approve. But there was no other course left. Mary’s letter was brief.“My Dearest Isobel,—My father has consented to approve your engagement to Guy. We shall both be delighted if you and General Clandon will pay us a visit. Please come to-morrow, if possible. In that case, send me a wire on receipt of this note.“Yours affectionately,“Mary Rossett.”Isobel received that letter next morning. She carried it to her father with shining eyes.The General read it, and kissed her.“Good news, indeed, my dear little girl. Lady Mary seems a witch, and able to work miracles.”“Oh, isn’t she a darling?” cried Isobel enthusiastically. “Shall I send the wire at once?” The wire was sent. Poor Isobel was a little distressed about the scantiness of her wardrobe. But she took heart of grace when she reflected that this was sure to be quite a private visit. It was not likely there would be other guests on such an especially family occasion.Lady Mary met them at the station. She kissed Isobel affectionately, and shook the General, who looked very aristocratic and dignified, warmly by the hand.“How did you manage it, you darling?” whispered Isobel as they sat together in the car.“Circumstances went in my favour; it is not quite entirely due to my own diplomacy,” answered Mary a little shyly. She knew that, in a way, she had struck a bargain with her aristocratic and obstinate old father, the chance of saving Guy against his indomitable pride.And she knew also that Isobel’s faithful heart would be very wounded when she learned the fact of her sweetheart’s peril.“You will know all about it after dinner to-night,” she added evasively. “You must rein in your impatience till then.”Isobel smiled happily. The world was rose-coloured to-day. Was not the last obstacle to her happiness removed? Would not her beloved Guy marry her in the sight of the whole world? His world as well as her own?Lord Saxham was awaiting them in the big hall, having now fully reconciled himself to the situation. He had many faults; he was choleric, obstinate, and a good deal of an opportunist. But whatever line of action he took, even if he somewhat stultified himself in the process, he always bore himself with a certain dignity.His meeting with the Clandons was expressive of his methods. He held out his right hand cordially to the General. With his left he drew Isobel towards him, and printed a fatherly kiss upon her forehead.“Welcome to Ticehurst, my dear child, which henceforth you must look upon as a second home. If Guy were here to-day our happiness would be complete.”The warm-hearted Isobel was ready to burst into tears. The Earl was behaving like a gentleman; she forgave him his former obduracy. After all, was it not natural that he should wish Guy to marry a woman in his own world?They had a very elaborate dinner, to which the host and the General did full justice. Isobel was too happy to care about food. Lady Mary ate just enough to keep her alive, according to her usual custom.After dinner they went into one of the small drawing-rooms. Here Lord Saxham, in very happy phrases, expressed his cordial consent to the engagement between Guy and Isobel. The men shook hands, the two girls kissed each other. It was a charming family scene.And then, in a manner, the real business of the evening began. Lady Mary began to explain things in a low and hesitating voice, that often faltered.She felt just a little ashamed of her task. Isobel was quite innocent, but she was not without brains. The General, she was sure, was quite keen. When she finished her recital, she knew both father and daughter would attribute the Earl’s sudden conversion to its proper cause.But Mary had not quite finished, when the Earl broke in, in his usual impetuous way.“You see, Isobel,”—he had by now taken quite whole-heartedly to the idea of her as his daughter-in-law—“we must have Guy back as quickly as possible. At the present moment, you are the person who has the greatest influence over him. No doubt, at a word from you he will come.”Isobel indulged in a rather forced smile; it struck Mary that there was something a little enigmatic in that smile. Of course, Lord Saxham had blundered as usual, he had revealed the truth just a little too nakedly. Isobel was reckoning up her welcome at its true value, so far as her host was concerned.This, of course, Isobel did, so did her father. But she was too sensible a girl to be offended. She, was, perhaps, a little disappointed that she did not owe this swift change of policy to her true friend. Lady Mary.She thought a little before she spoke. “Are you quite sure that Guy would come back, if I implored him to do so,” she said at length.She turned towards Lord Saxham with a pleasant smile that robbed her words of any subtle impertinence.“Guy has always told me that there is a strong vein of obstinacy in the Rossett family. Perhaps,”—and here a proud light came into her eyes—“I could influence him more than anybody else in the world.”Mary looked imploringly at her.“And, Isobel, you will use that influence of course?”“I will tell you something that, up to the present, I have only told my father,” replied the girl quietly. “I knew of all this some little time ago. My cousin, Maurice Farquhar, has a great friend, half Spanish, half English, who is also a journalist. He told my cousin that danger was threatening Guy. Maurice told me. You can guess what I felt. Guy is as dear to me as he is to you.”“Of course, there is no need to tell us that,” cried Lady Mary hastily.“My first impulse was to write to Guy, tell him what I had heard, and implore him to leave this dangerous country. I consulted my father. I did not write that letter. Many a night I have lain awake, and in the morning resolved to write it. It is still unwritten.”The Earl’s face bore a puzzled expression. Lady Mary seemed somewhat bewildered too. General Clandon alone displayed no emotion.“I don’t understand,” breathed Mary softly.“Oh, can’t you see?” cried Isobel quickly. “Suppose Guy yielded to my prayers, and seized some excuse to come back! Might he not in after years reproach me for having induced him to play a coward’s part? Surely you can understand what I feel.”And, in one swift moment of comprehension, the worldly and opportunist Earl and his far nobler daughter understood.Lady Mary looked at her father with a triumphant smile. She had gauged Isobel aright from the first.Gone for ever the dishonouring suspicions of a designing young woman seeking to make her fortune by a wealthy marriage. It was all too obvious. With Guy’s departure from Spain, Isobel had everything to gain. With his sojourn in that dangerous country she stood to lose everything.“Whether I marry Guy or not,” went on the low, sweet voice, breaking at the end into a little sob, “his honour is my first consideration.”The General’s deep tones broke the intense silence that succeeded those few words.“Lord Saxham, Lady Mary, I most heartily approve Isobel’s attitude. I am sure Mr Rossett feels as I do in this matter. If he deserted his post at this juncture, he would be like the soldier who runs away on the battlefield.”Lord Saxham looked at the beautiful, slender girl, so noble in her self-sacrificing love.“My dear,” he said, in tones that were a little unsteady, “you are a wonderful woman. Guy could not have chosen more wisely. I am sorry—very sorry—” He broke off. It was not perhaps precisely the moment to apologise for his previous obstinacy, his rancour against “the little girl who lived in a cottage at Eastbourne.”Lady Mary went round the table, put her arms round her, and kissed her warmly.“You are a brave and beautiful darling,” she said, with a woman’s enthusiasm. “You have taught both my father and myself a lesson in unselfishness. God grant that our dear Guy comes back to us safe and sound.”

Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the lower quarters of Madrid.

One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular rôle. The danger that he ran added a spice to his enjoyment.

The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman.

That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus:

“Dear Mr Rossett,—You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy, when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like to have a brief chat with you this afternoon.”

The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable quarters of the town.

He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew’s associate, a man of whom Guy had some recollection.

The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard.

Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended working-man. Moreno waved it away.

“We will have cigarettes, if you please,” he said, in a low voice. “Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble and unprosperous working-man.”

Rossett bowed to his companion’s superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.

“Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post.”

Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted.

“Do you mind explaining a little more fully,” he said cautiously.

Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other’s caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.

“My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?” Guy nodded. “So far, you are right.”

It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett’s promotion, for certain private reasons.

“I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment.” Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming.

“I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter.”

Moreno assented blandly. “Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy.”

“What do you know, or guess?” asked Rossett angrily.

“Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for, in the double rôle I am playing, I have to be very cautious.”

“Please go on,” said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident sincerity of his companion.

“For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care.”

“Yes, I know that,” assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations. Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably well informed.

“I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very good advice?” was the Spaniard’s startling question.

Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties.

“I will tell you when you have offered it,” answered the young diplomat curtly.

A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily away, speaking in Spanish.

“One of the gang,” he whispered to Rossett. “The city is honeycombed with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English.”

He paused a moment before he spoke again.

“My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand.”

“Why should I do this?” queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. “Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave.”

For a second, Rossett’s face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near.

“Why, why?” he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background.

Moreno looked in the same direction. “You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog’s chance.”

Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. “I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst.”

“Think of the girl you love,” pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him.

A spasm of pain crossed Rossett’s face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed?

“I will stay,” he said doggedly. “And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety.”

Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. “You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal,” he said, “but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England.”

“I go back in honour, not as a fugitive,” answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant.

“If that man had known who you were,” observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, “he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on.”

And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question.

“But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?”

Moreno smiled his subtle smile. “My dear friend, I am sending weekly articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally delightful population. In short, I am ‘booming’ Spain. I am the innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday.”

Rossett smiled. “You are a very wonderful man.Au revoir.”

That night three letters were written to London. One was from Guy addressed to his sister, and it contained the important question, had his father anything to do with his appointment to Madrid; in other words, did he owe his promotion to anything except his own merits?

Mary’s reply came back in due course. It was distinctly conciliatory and diplomatic. But, as Mary was not very adapt at telling a lie, the truth peeped through. It was evident to Guy that Lord Saxham had exercised his influence to get his son to Spain, with the view of separating him from Isobel; Guy felt very bitter towards his father. He felt it was something in the nature of a dirty trick, diplomatic perhaps, but none the less of a questionable nature.

Moreno wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Mary Rossett. He had not even been introduced to that charming young woman, but such an elementary fact as that did not deter him. He explained who he was, he recalled the evening at the Savoy. He pointed out that her brother was in great danger, and that she should use all the influence of her family to get Guy recalled on some pretext or another. He added that he had met Guy in Madrid and urged this course upon him, that Guy on scenting danger, with the stubborn pride of the Englishman, had refused to abandon his post.

The second letter he sent to the head of the English Secret Service with a request that it should be shown to Greatorex. The motive of the second letter was the same as the first, that Guy Rossett should be got out of harm’s way, before an anarchist knife should be dug in his ribs.

Mary took the letter to her father. She was very genuinely alarmed; she also had a faint recollection of the swarthy young Spaniard who had sat at an adjoining table on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. He had mentioned in his letter that he was a member of the Secret Service. She was disposed to trust him.

She thrust the letter into Lord Saxham’s hand with an almost tragic gesture.

“Now, father, you can see what you have done by sending him over to Spain. That wily old Greatorex wanted to use him just for his own purpose, and you fell in pat with his scheme.”

Lord Saxham read the letter, and his face blanched. “Oh, my poor boy,” he groaned.

His daughter loved him, but at the bottom of her heart there was always a little good-humoured contempt. He was so terribly weak. Headstrong, violent, and explosive, but always weak.

Lady Mary spoke irritably; she was tender and compassionate, but not in the least weak.

“We have got to act, father, and act immediately. Guy must come back at once. You must see this artful old Greatorex to-morrow.”

Saxham promised that he would see Greatorex to-morrow. He ’phoned up that important personage, and fixed an appointment.

The two men met. By that time Greatorex had received Moreno’s letter from the head of the Secret Service. He knew, therefore, exactly what his old friend Lord Saxham had come about.

The Earl began in his usual explosive manner. “By God, Greatorex, you haven’t treated me well in this matter. You have sent my poor boy to his death.”

If Lord Saxham had been a less important member of the aristocracy, the imperturbable Greatorex would have shown him the door. But under the circumstances forbearance had to be exercised.

“Softly, softly, if you please, my dear Saxham. It was at your request I sent your son to Spain, to get him out of an unfortunate entanglement.”

“I know, I know,” spluttered the Earl, never very great in argument, “but I didn’t know he was going to his death.”

“No, more did I,” replied Greatorex, speaking with his usual calm. “Now let us be reasonable and avoid indulging in mutual recriminations which irritate both parties. What do you want me to do?”

“Recall him at once,” thundered Lord Saxham.

“One moment, if you please,” said Greatorex quietly. “We have got to consider Guy’s views on this matter. I have here a confidential communication from a very trusted member of our Secret Service. He has warned Guy of his danger, put all the possibilities and probabilities before him, and Guy refuses to budge. In short, he declines to run away. What have you got to say to that?”

“Then I say he is a most infernal fool,” cried Lord Saxham in his most explosive manner. Greatorex’s lip curled a little.

“Perhaps from your point of view. Shall I give you mine?”

“If you like,” said Saxham sullenly. He was not so dense that he could not see what was in the other man’s mind.

“He is a very brave young Englishman of the true bulldog breed, who is going to stick to his post oblivious of the consequences. It is that breed that makes the British Empire what it is. Do you still want me to recall him?”

“Yes,” spluttered the Earl. “I want him recalled. I don’t intend him to be done to death by a dirty Spanish anarchist.”

Greatorex’s look was very disdainful.

“I will be on the wires all day with Stonehenge and Guy. If he consents to be recalled on any pretext, I will recall him. But please understand me, Saxham; he shall only be recalled with his own consent. I will go no further.”

The tall, lean man stood up, and towered over the somewhat blustering Lord Saxham.

“You can recall him, whether he consents or not,” cried the angry father, “if you choose.”

“In this case I am not going to exercise my prerogative. It is no use arguing, Saxham. On this point my mind is made up. I will only add that I greatly admire your son’s attitude. If he sticks to this business, he will have a great career before him.”

“Unless he is murdered to-morrow,” commented Saxham bitterly, as he walked out of the room.

The poor old Earl went back to Ticehurst Park in a very agitated frame of mind. Lady Mary was his favourite child, but Guy was his best beloved son. Ticehurst would inherit the lands and the title, but for Ticehurst he had only a very mild liking.

Mary met him in the hall. She was only a little less perturbed than her father.

“What news?” she cried eagerly. “Have you induced Greatorex to recall him?”

Lord Saxham had to confess to failure. He went with her into the morning-room, and related at full length the details of his interview with Greatorex. That powerful personage was ready to fall in with his views—but the stumbling-block was Guy himself. If Guy stuck to his resolution not to seek safety in flight, Greatorex would not move.

Mary’s sweet eyes filled with tears. She had already abused Greatorex, but she was too just not to understand his attitude. At the bottom of his heart, Greatorex approved of Guy’s resolution to stick to his post, whatever the consequences.

“I am sorry I said harsh things of Greatorex,” she said in a broken voice. “Of course Guy himself could take no other course, and his chief admires his indomitable spirit. But, all the same, we must move heaven and earth to get him away.”

The Earl sank wearily into a chair. Presently he began to cry and moan. “Oh, my poor boy. To think I have exposed him to this danger by my ill-advised action.”

Poor Lady Mary was on the verge of hysteria herself, but the senile grief of the old Earl made her strong and self-reliant. Her brain was working quickly. Could she not turn this moment to advantage?

“You are sorry for what you have done, father? You recognise that, but for your unfortunate intervention, Guy would never have gone to Spain.”

“I know, I know,” replied poor old Lord Saxham in quavering accents. “I would cut off my right hand if, by doing so, I could undo that morning’s work with Greatorex. I was very proud of it at the time.”

Mary spoke very slowly, very calmly. “Guy has got in him the Rossett obstinacy, and, after all, he is only acting as a brave man should. We are less brave for him than he is for himself.”

The Earl stretched out his shaking hands.

“Mary, will you write and implore him to let Greatorex recall him. Greatorex has given me his promise to do so, if Guy consents.”

Mary shook her head. “Guy is very fond of me, I know. In many things I could influence him, but not in this. It is no use your writing to him, you have less influence over him than I. If he would not listen to me, he will not listen to you.”

“Then he is doomed.” The poor old Earl’s head sank on his breast, and he surrendered himself to despair.

And now had come Mary’s great opportunity, and she took advantage of it. She was no mean diplomatist at any time.

“I shall not move him, you will not move him. And you say you cannot move Greatorex. There is just one person in the world who might persuade him. I am not quite sure even about her.”

Lord Saxham was very subdued, very penitent, but there was still some of the old Adam left in him. He answered quickly; the voice was still quavering, but there was in it a querulous note.

“You mean that—”

Lady Mary lifted a warning finger; she knew he was going to say “minx.”

“Father, please, this is no time for old and foolish animosities. Guy’s life is at stake, through his noble, perhaps exaggerated, sense of honour. You and I are powerless to alter his determination. There is just a chance that Isobel will be more successful. Will you put your pride in your pocket and ask her to plead with him?”

It was a hard struggle, but in the end Lord Saxham’s affection for his son won. The old aristocrat gave in.

“Do what you like, Mary. I will consent to anything to get Guy back.”

Mary moved swiftly to the writing-table. “I shall ask her and her father to come to us to-morrow for a visit with the view of your sanctioning her engagement to Guy. I shall ask her to wire their acceptance.”

The Earl sat as in a dream, while she wrote; dimly he realised that events had taken a turn which he could not approve. But there was no other course left. Mary’s letter was brief.

“My Dearest Isobel,—My father has consented to approve your engagement to Guy. We shall both be delighted if you and General Clandon will pay us a visit. Please come to-morrow, if possible. In that case, send me a wire on receipt of this note.

“Yours affectionately,

“Mary Rossett.”

Isobel received that letter next morning. She carried it to her father with shining eyes.

The General read it, and kissed her.

“Good news, indeed, my dear little girl. Lady Mary seems a witch, and able to work miracles.”

“Oh, isn’t she a darling?” cried Isobel enthusiastically. “Shall I send the wire at once?” The wire was sent. Poor Isobel was a little distressed about the scantiness of her wardrobe. But she took heart of grace when she reflected that this was sure to be quite a private visit. It was not likely there would be other guests on such an especially family occasion.

Lady Mary met them at the station. She kissed Isobel affectionately, and shook the General, who looked very aristocratic and dignified, warmly by the hand.

“How did you manage it, you darling?” whispered Isobel as they sat together in the car.

“Circumstances went in my favour; it is not quite entirely due to my own diplomacy,” answered Mary a little shyly. She knew that, in a way, she had struck a bargain with her aristocratic and obstinate old father, the chance of saving Guy against his indomitable pride.

And she knew also that Isobel’s faithful heart would be very wounded when she learned the fact of her sweetheart’s peril.

“You will know all about it after dinner to-night,” she added evasively. “You must rein in your impatience till then.”

Isobel smiled happily. The world was rose-coloured to-day. Was not the last obstacle to her happiness removed? Would not her beloved Guy marry her in the sight of the whole world? His world as well as her own?

Lord Saxham was awaiting them in the big hall, having now fully reconciled himself to the situation. He had many faults; he was choleric, obstinate, and a good deal of an opportunist. But whatever line of action he took, even if he somewhat stultified himself in the process, he always bore himself with a certain dignity.

His meeting with the Clandons was expressive of his methods. He held out his right hand cordially to the General. With his left he drew Isobel towards him, and printed a fatherly kiss upon her forehead.

“Welcome to Ticehurst, my dear child, which henceforth you must look upon as a second home. If Guy were here to-day our happiness would be complete.”

The warm-hearted Isobel was ready to burst into tears. The Earl was behaving like a gentleman; she forgave him his former obduracy. After all, was it not natural that he should wish Guy to marry a woman in his own world?

They had a very elaborate dinner, to which the host and the General did full justice. Isobel was too happy to care about food. Lady Mary ate just enough to keep her alive, according to her usual custom.

After dinner they went into one of the small drawing-rooms. Here Lord Saxham, in very happy phrases, expressed his cordial consent to the engagement between Guy and Isobel. The men shook hands, the two girls kissed each other. It was a charming family scene.

And then, in a manner, the real business of the evening began. Lady Mary began to explain things in a low and hesitating voice, that often faltered.

She felt just a little ashamed of her task. Isobel was quite innocent, but she was not without brains. The General, she was sure, was quite keen. When she finished her recital, she knew both father and daughter would attribute the Earl’s sudden conversion to its proper cause.

But Mary had not quite finished, when the Earl broke in, in his usual impetuous way.

“You see, Isobel,”—he had by now taken quite whole-heartedly to the idea of her as his daughter-in-law—“we must have Guy back as quickly as possible. At the present moment, you are the person who has the greatest influence over him. No doubt, at a word from you he will come.”

Isobel indulged in a rather forced smile; it struck Mary that there was something a little enigmatic in that smile. Of course, Lord Saxham had blundered as usual, he had revealed the truth just a little too nakedly. Isobel was reckoning up her welcome at its true value, so far as her host was concerned.

This, of course, Isobel did, so did her father. But she was too sensible a girl to be offended. She, was, perhaps, a little disappointed that she did not owe this swift change of policy to her true friend. Lady Mary.

She thought a little before she spoke. “Are you quite sure that Guy would come back, if I implored him to do so,” she said at length.

She turned towards Lord Saxham with a pleasant smile that robbed her words of any subtle impertinence.

“Guy has always told me that there is a strong vein of obstinacy in the Rossett family. Perhaps,”—and here a proud light came into her eyes—“I could influence him more than anybody else in the world.”

Mary looked imploringly at her.

“And, Isobel, you will use that influence of course?”

“I will tell you something that, up to the present, I have only told my father,” replied the girl quietly. “I knew of all this some little time ago. My cousin, Maurice Farquhar, has a great friend, half Spanish, half English, who is also a journalist. He told my cousin that danger was threatening Guy. Maurice told me. You can guess what I felt. Guy is as dear to me as he is to you.”

“Of course, there is no need to tell us that,” cried Lady Mary hastily.

“My first impulse was to write to Guy, tell him what I had heard, and implore him to leave this dangerous country. I consulted my father. I did not write that letter. Many a night I have lain awake, and in the morning resolved to write it. It is still unwritten.”

The Earl’s face bore a puzzled expression. Lady Mary seemed somewhat bewildered too. General Clandon alone displayed no emotion.

“I don’t understand,” breathed Mary softly.

“Oh, can’t you see?” cried Isobel quickly. “Suppose Guy yielded to my prayers, and seized some excuse to come back! Might he not in after years reproach me for having induced him to play a coward’s part? Surely you can understand what I feel.”

And, in one swift moment of comprehension, the worldly and opportunist Earl and his far nobler daughter understood.

Lady Mary looked at her father with a triumphant smile. She had gauged Isobel aright from the first.

Gone for ever the dishonouring suspicions of a designing young woman seeking to make her fortune by a wealthy marriage. It was all too obvious. With Guy’s departure from Spain, Isobel had everything to gain. With his sojourn in that dangerous country she stood to lose everything.

“Whether I marry Guy or not,” went on the low, sweet voice, breaking at the end into a little sob, “his honour is my first consideration.”

The General’s deep tones broke the intense silence that succeeded those few words.

“Lord Saxham, Lady Mary, I most heartily approve Isobel’s attitude. I am sure Mr Rossett feels as I do in this matter. If he deserted his post at this juncture, he would be like the soldier who runs away on the battlefield.”

Lord Saxham looked at the beautiful, slender girl, so noble in her self-sacrificing love.

“My dear,” he said, in tones that were a little unsteady, “you are a wonderful woman. Guy could not have chosen more wisely. I am sorry—very sorry—” He broke off. It was not perhaps precisely the moment to apologise for his previous obstinacy, his rancour against “the little girl who lived in a cottage at Eastbourne.”

Lady Mary went round the table, put her arms round her, and kissed her warmly.

“You are a brave and beautiful darling,” she said, with a woman’s enthusiasm. “You have taught both my father and myself a lesson in unselfishness. God grant that our dear Guy comes back to us safe and sound.”

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