Whither Thou Goest Part 11

"The man you were dining with, Guy Rossett?" replied Farquhar quietly.

"Ah, you have guessed! But it is quite a secret. My father knows. His sister knows. His father is obstinate and prejudiced; he wants him to marry a woman in his own world. We are waiting for his consent."

"I quite understand," said Farquhar gloomily. "I am too late, I can see. Honestly, Isobel, had I asked you, say, a year ago, would your answer have been different?"

Her frank and candid gaze met his steadfast glance. "I fancy I should have said yes, Maurice. But I am not certain it would have been real love; you see, I have known so few men. Guy has revealed a new world to me."

Farquhar sighed. He was eloquent enough in the courts, but he was dumb in the presence of women. This handsome young diplomatist had spoken to her in a language that she readily understood.

He silently said good-bye to his dream, the fair dream of the future which was to be glorified by Isobel Clandon's gracious presence.

"So that is all over. Well, Isobel, I hope you will always allow me to be your very good friend." She reached out her hand impulsively and laid it on his.

"Oh, yes, please, Maurice. You will always be a dear, kind brother, won't you?"

"Perhaps some day I may be able to help you. I have just learned there is some danger threatening Guy Rossett."

Her face blanched. She turned to him an imploring glance.

"Danger threatening Guy. Oh, please tell me, quickly."

With a bitter pang, he realised in that anguished utterance a full sense of the love which he had lost, of the youthful heart which he had allowed another man to capture.

In a few brief sentences, he told her what Moreno had related to him.

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.sword, 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 Lucue."

"Quite right," answered Moreno easily. "It was Lucue 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 Lucue who will make it a possibility."

"Trust to Lucue," answered Moreno, in his easy way. "If he can't do it, n.o.body 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 Lucue 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.

Lucue 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 Lucue ever had cause to suspect him, then Lucue would stick a knife into his ribs without the slightest compunction. But he felt sure he was the cleverer of the two, and that Lucue 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. Lucue 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 a.s.sumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. "And so, you are one of us?"

"Yes, very much so," replied Moreno quietly.