Whither Thou Goest Part 27

For a moment, Guy Rossett lost his head. "Yes, you told me just now, I remember, she belonged to the brotherhood. But I always understood--"

He paused; Moreno noted that sudden pause. Rossett had been on the point of saying something that would have revealed much.

The young man leaned forward and whispered.

"Mr Rossett, do you still refuse to give me the name of your informant?"

"I am afraid I cannot," was the firm reply. "My word was given, you understand." Again he seemed on the point of saying something further, and refrained.

Moreno shrugged his shoulders. "I admire your scrupulousness, but I still think you are very foolish in your own interests. Still, I know what you Englishmen are. If my suspicions had been confirmed by your positive evidence, my hands would have been very much strengthened. I could have dealt with the matter in a very positive and speedy way."

Rossett kept silence. It was the safest method with the subtle young Spaniard, who took notice of every word and every glance, and rapidly constructed a theory out of the most slender facts.

"There is no more to be said, so far as that is concerned," said Moreno quietly. "You could have made it very easy for me; as it is, I shall have to expend more time and trouble. But trust me, I shall get the information I want in good time. I shall find people in your own walk of life less scrupulous than you are yourself."

"Perhaps," replied Rossett briefly.

"I am keeping watch and ward over you, as you know," went on Moreno in lighter tones. "And I promise you I will give you plenty of notice of danger."

"It is pretty near, eh?" queried Rossett.

"Not very far off, I can a.s.sure you. I am seeing the Chief of the Spanish police to-morrow. I have some very important information to give him."

The next day Moreno had a long interview with the Chief of Police, and also with the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. Both the officials made copious notes at the respective interviews. When he left them Moreno felt he had done good work. He was sure that he could outwit Zorrilta, Alvedero, even the great Contraras himself.

He took a flying visit to England after this, having two objects in view. First, he wanted to see Isobel to arrange the details of her journey to Madrid. He lunched with her and Lady Mary at a quiet little restaurant in Soho. He promised to meet her on her arrival at Madrid and conduct her to her friends. He would say nothing to Guy Rossett till he had her permission.

For at the eleventh hour Isobel's heart a little failed her. From what point of view would Guy contemplate this rather wild adventure? Would he take it as a proof of her devoted love, or would he frown at the escapade, as a little unwomanly? Men of the straightforward English type like Rossett are apt to be a little uncertain in their judgment of what is seemly in their womenkind, and what is the reverse.

After luncheon, he went to keep an appointment with one of the chiefs of the English Secret Service. This gentleman received him very graciously. Moreno stood high in his estimation. He had rendered very valuable service in the past and the present.

"Delighted to see you, Mr Moreno. But I should have thought at the moment you could hardly be spared from Spain, more especially the neighbourhood of Fonterrabia, and Madrid."

"I never take a holiday, sir, unless I feel I am justified. In this instance I am. It is true I had a little private business on in England at this particular time, which does not concern your department. But I have sandwiched that in."

The grey-haired gentleman listened politely. Moreno, as he knew by experience, did not make many mistakes.

"Some little time ago, Mr Guy Rossett, at present attached to Madrid, gave you some very important information about the anarchist movement in Spain."

"Ah, you know, do you?" was the cautious answer.

"Of course, I have known it for a long time. For very special reasons I want to know the name of the man or woman who gave that information to Rossett. I will give you my reasons presently."

The other man thought a moment. "Yes, I remember the details perfectly.

Rossett handed us certain memoranda which he had obtained from somebody, whose name he would not disclose."

"That is exactly like Rossett. I have attacked him direct and he still keeps silence. As an honourable Englishman he remains staunch to his promise. One cannot blame him, although in his own interests it would be better if he were a little less scrupulous."

The grey-haired man began to get interested. "Give me a few more details, Mr Moreno, so that I can see what you are driving at."

Moreno unfolded his suspicions briefly. He finished his story with the words, "If you could not make Rossett speak, I cannot. But you have those memoranda in your archives. Will you show them to me so that I may see if I recognise the handwriting."

The other thought for a moment before he replied. Even in the Secret Service everything is conducted with the most scrupulous fairness, although their opponents are dest.i.tute of the elementary principles of honesty.

Then he made up his mind. "From what you have told me, I think it is wise that I should show you these memoranda, with a view to strengthening your hand. Kindly wait a few minutes and I will fetch them."

He was only away a very short time, but Moreno's nerves were on the rack during the brief absence. Were his suspicions going to be absolutely confirmed, or still left in the region of mere conjecture?

The grey-haired man came back, and placed half a dozen closely covered sheets before him. They were in a small, clear, feminine handwriting.

Triumph glared in Moreno's dark eyes. "As I guessed. She wasn't clever enough to disguise her hand. I can understand she could not run the risk of having them copied. Why didn't she get Rossett to write them out at her dictation?"

The other man made no reply to this ebullition on the part of the young Spaniard.

"Of course you can't part with these, or any one page of them?" asked Moreno.

"Out of the question," came the expected answer. "I quite agree. But you can get photographs taken of them, and then I shall have this woman in the hollow of my hand."

"That shall be done, Mr Moreno. You are going back to Spain to-day.

They shall be sent to you to-morrow at whatever address you leave with me." And Moreno walked out of the cosy little room well pleased with himself. Guy Rossett might have saved him all this trouble if he had chosen to open his mouth. Still, he had got the information he wanted.

And, above all, what a fool Violet Hargrave had been, to let those memoranda go out in her own handwriting! Moreno, who thought of every detail, would not have done that.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The great anarchical a.s.sociation of which Ferdinand Contraras was the leading spirit did not differ greatly in essential features from those tyrannical and effete inst.i.tutions which it was striving to supersede.

There was still the wide gulf between the cla.s.ses, bridged over speciously by the fact that they addressed each other as "comrade,"

waiving all distinctive t.i.tles.

The chief addressed the educated young fisherman as Somoza shortly, which was natural. And, on the other hand, Somoza addressed him, though always very respectfully, as Contraras, which would not have been at all natural, under ordinary circ.u.mstances.

Still, Somoza did not slap him on the back, or take liberties, as he would have done with an elderly fisherman in his own rank of life. The gulf of cla.s.s could not quite be crossed by dropping t.i.tles, and calling each other comrade.

And then there was the question of wealth. Contraras, in spite of his numerous donations to the cause, was still rich; so was Jaques.

Zorrilta was moderately well-off. Alvedero and Lucue were poor. The sharing out had not begun yet. Lucue, as we know, lived in humble lodgings in Soho, which galled him somewhat, as he was fond of comfort and the flesh-pots.

Contraras, after a brief sojourn at Fonterrabia had come back to Madrid, where he had many friends in his own sphere of life. Although not of n.o.ble birth himself, he had married a woman, a member of a family poor but boasting of the proudest blood of Spain in its veins.

At Madrid he had engaged a suite of rooms at the Ritz Hotel in the Plaza de Canovas, near the Prado Museum. Democrat and anarchist as he was in theory, the man delighted in displaying a certain amount of ostentation, whether at home or abroad.

A little aware of his weakness in this direction, he consoled himself by the thought that in doing this he was throwing dust in the eyes of people of his own cla.s.s--that he could more successfully carry on his propaganda, because n.o.body would ever suspect him of seeking to overthrow the regime under which he had prospered so exceedingly.

The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, was in Madrid at the same time also as Contraras. She was staying at an equally luxurious hostelry-- the Grand Hotel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol. She also had a suite of rooms, imitating her ill.u.s.trious chief.

She chose to be known by her maiden name of Mademoiselle Valerie Delmonte. It did not suit her emanc.i.p.ated notions that a woman should sink her ident.i.ty in that of a husband. She had borne with the infliction for three short years of married life. When her elderly husband, a rich Paris financier, died she found herself a very wealthy woman. Monsieur Varenne had no near kith or kin. With the exception of a few handsome legacies, he had left all his money to this young woman who was very handsome and still young, only in the late twenties.

Contraras was an anarchist by profound and philosophical conviction. He had persuaded himself that revolution, open and brutal revolution, was the only cure for a rotten and diseased world.

Valerie had arrived at the same conclusion from a merely personal standpoint--from the point of view of her own feelings. Naturally of a morbid temperament, absolutely a child of the gutter, the offspring of drunken and dissolute parents who had starved and beaten her, she had suffered no illusions as to what existence meant for the impoverished.