Whither Thou Goest Part 20

In a small room facing the sea, in the obscure little cafe "The Concho"

there sat four people. They were respectively, Zorrilta, Jaime Alvedero, two of the most trusted lieutenants of the great Contraras-- Contraras who directed his world-wide campaign from the safe and sheltered precincts of Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead--Andres Moreno, journalist, trusted agent of the English Secret Service, ostensibly sworn anarchist, and lastly Violet Hargrave, now domiciled in Spain in the interests of the brotherhood, in England a somewhat well-known member of the semi-smart set.

Moreno, as we know, was the son of a purely Spanish father and an English mother. Violet Hargrave was not greatly given to confidences.

But the pair had been thrown much together. In spite of their mixed nationality, Spain was, to a great extent, a foreign land to them.

Violet had been born in Spain and lived there up to the age of ten, but her memories of the country were faint and fragmentary. Moreno had been born in England, brought up and educated there. He spoke Spanish perfectly since his father had taught him the language, and conversed in it with him from childhood. In that father's company he had made some dozen trips to what was really his native country, he had visited every important town--Barcelona, Toledo, Seville, Granada, Segovia, not to mention Madrid.

Still, they were both more English than foreign, and there was an unconscious sympathy between them arising from this fact. Moreno's heart ached for the familiar haunts of Fleet Street, for the restaurants where the odour of garlic was not always greatly in evidence. And Violet sighed for the elegant flat in Mount Street, with its perfect appointments. She had grown to loathe this sun-baked Biscayan coast.

Being thrown so much in each other's society, caution had been a little relaxed on the woman's side--Moreno had never for a moment relaxed his.

Violet Hargrave was still an enigma to him. He was not prepared to trust her in the smallest degree. But in his peculiar position he could trust n.o.body.

One day she had been very confidential. It had been after a good dinner, followed by one or two potent liqueurs. On such an occasion even the most cautious woman of the world may find her tongue loosened.

She had confided to Moreno a considerable portion of her family history.

Her father, a ne'er-do-well, a soldier of fortune--she frankly gave this description of her male parent--had fallen in love with and married her Spanish mother, a beautiful young girl, a professional dancer, not, however, occupying a _Very_ high position in her profession.

It peeped through the narrative, told in a rather staccato fas.h.i.+on, that her father had lived chiefly on his wife's small earnings, that he did no regular work, but acted as her agent. When she was ten years of age, her mother died, and her father was thrown on his own resources.

They had come to London. James Wheeler, such was her father's name, had at once sought out a rich financier known in business circles as Mr Jackson. His real name was Juan Jaques, he was a Spaniard, and he had at one time been desperately in love with her mother.

For the sake of that old affection, he had befriended the derelict father and the helpless child. He had set Wheeler on his legs, so far as it was possible to help such a weak and incapable creature. But Wheeler was addicted to drink and was cursed with a feeble const.i.tution.

In a few years, the drink carried him off. Violet, at the age of eighteen, was left alone in the world. Her mother, no doubt, had relatives in Spain, but she knew nothing of them. Of her father's relations, if he had any, she had never heard him speak.

Whatever the failings of the moneylender in certain directions, he behaved with rare generosity and tenderness to the daughter of his old sweetheart. He advanced money to secure her a good education. He did his best to secure for her eligible posts.

Still, on the whole, she had experienced a rough time. She could do a little of everything fairly, but nothing very well. She had tried the concert hall, the stage, and been a failure on both. She had not even inherited her mother's talent for dancing.

But poor old Jaques was always patient and kind. He kept her going with an allowance that might be called handsome. At the back of his mind he felt pretty sure that Violet would prove a winner in the end.

She had been very seedy. Jaques had summoned her to his private room, thrust a hundred pounds worth of notes into her hand, and ordered her to take herself off to the most expensive hotel in Scarborough, to pick up health and strength. They would map out together some fresh plan of campaign when she came back.

At the expensive hotel in Scarborough, she met Jack Hargrave, a personable young fellow, who seemed to have plenty of money, and was of good family.

At that time Violet was a very thrifty young woman--she learned expensive habits later on--she reckoned that she would stay at Scarborough for a fortnight, and return with a handsome balance out of the hundred pounds. Then the kind Jaques, to whom she was genuinely grateful, would not have to put his hand in his pocket for some little time.

She met Jack Hargrave, who was staying at the same hotel. He fell violently in love with her, with her blonde prettiness. At the end of the first week he proposed.

Violet was attracted by him, perhaps a little bit in love. She accepted him on the spot, and went off the next morning to London to consult Jaques, in whom she placed her full confidence.

There was here a little break in the story, as told to Moreno.

Evidently her guardian approved. She married Jack Hargrave, and they had taken the flat in Mount Street, of which she was still the tenant.

Here Moreno had interrupted. "You say that Jack Hargrave was well-off.

How did he make his money? Flats in Mount Street are not run on credit."

"Oh, don't you know? It was Jaques who put him into good things in the City, out of friends.h.i.+p for me."

"But, one moment," pursued Moreno. "He was well-off when he met you.

How was he making money when our good old friend Jaques had not appeared on the scene?"

Violet, under the influence of the liqueurs, was a little off her guard.

"Oh, don't be silly. Jack was a very expert bridge-player."

Moreno nodded. "I think I understand. We won't go into details. Under his instructions, you became a very expert bridge-player too. It used to be whispered that you were just a little bit too lucky."

Violet Hargrave admitted that many rumours had been flying about, and that the flat in Mount Street had become a little suspect.

"And how did you get into this?" had been Moreno's next question.

Violet had been very frank. "It was dear old Jaques who drew me into it. You know I have told you how grateful I was to him, how indebted.

When he asked me, could I refuse, after all the benefits he had showered upon me?"

"Impossible," said Moreno in his quiet, easy tones. He added, after a pause, "I wonder if your heart is in it?"

She flashed at him a swift glance of interrogation. "I wonder if yours is?"

Moreno smiled. They were then each suspecting the other, on account of their mixed parentage.

"Absolutely," he answered in a tone of deep conviction. "I am nine-tenths Spaniard, one-tenth Englishman. You are one-tenth Spaniard and nine-tenths Englishwoman. I very much doubt if your heart is in it."

Violet spoke in a low, hard voice. And she also felt there was need of caution.

"I have lived a very hard life, depending upon charity, generous charity I admit, for many years. I think I do not love the present order of things. I am really an anarchist; I think I may truly say my heart is in it."

Moreno accepted her statement. She was still an enigma to him. She had spoken of Jaques with a genuine sense of grat.i.tude, she had alluded to her late husband in terms of sincere affection. The woman had her sentimental moments.

Then he remembered that she was the daughter of a drunken and derelict father--this much she had told him. Her mother was a Spanish dancer of unknown origin. Out of this peculiar blend, was it possible to fas.h.i.+on an honest woman. Moreno doubted it.

He remembered the night in the flat at Mount Street, when she had vindictively declared that Guy Rossett had to be got out of the way.

He had looked at the still very pretty woman, her fair cheeks just a little flushed with the after results of the good dinner. She had, perhaps, her good points, but was she not an absolute degenerate?

Daughter of the wastrel father and the Spanish dancer!

He had been very sympathetic through the recital. He had helped her on with an encouraging word or two in the pauses of her narrative, for at times she had evidently pulled herself up with the recollection that she was being too frank. But he had learned a good deal about Violet's past.

He still had his suspicions. Perhaps another dinner or two might get more out of her.

The four conspirators sat in the little room facing the sea. Violet Hargrave, by the way, was dressed in a peasant costume.

Alvedero spoke in his deep voice. "I think, for the present, we will make Fonterrabia our headquarters. It is a quiet little town, and, for the moment, not suspect."

The Deputy-Governor of Navarre a.s.sented. They could do great things from this comparatively obscure quarter.

Alvedero spoke again. "Now, first, there is the question of Guy Rossett. Contraras and Lucue are agreed that he should be removed speedily."

Moreno hastened to corroborate. He knew that Violet Hargrave was watching him narrowly. "The sooner the better," he said heartily. "He knows too much."