Whither Thou Goest Part 13

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 Lucue 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 gla.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 Lucue 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 a.s.sociation of this kind."

"And when they are discovered, the penalty is death." Moreno spoke quietly, but he felt an inward s.h.i.+ver. After all, was he so certain he was going to outwit Lucue 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 unblus.h.i.+ng audacity.

Mrs Hargrave bent forward, and spoke with intensity.

"Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Lucue 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 att.i.tude 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 Amba.s.sador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the Amba.s.sador'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 a.s.sented 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, crus.h.i.+ng her and governing her through the puppet King, his brother, Joseph Bonaparte.