Whither Thou Goest Part 32

He was raised from his reveries by a light touch on his arm.

"Who are these two men?" It was Violet Hargrave who spoke. "Somehow, they look people of importance."

Moreno recognised them at once, as they drove slowly through--the Chief of the Secret Service, the Head of the Police. He was glad that they were on the scene early. They might not have quite the perfect methods of the corresponding French organisations, but perhaps they would justify themselves before the night was over.

"I don't know them from Adam, but, as you say, they certainly look persons of importance, especially the fat one."

Always suspicious, he wondered if Mrs Hargrave was trying to draw him, herself knowing who they were. Anyway, she had failed. He was not to be caught by a leading question like that.

Then presently she nudged him. "Look, look, the Chief!"

Yes, it was Contraras, driving in a humble cab. His fine, lined face showed clear against the waning light.

"Wonderful man! The brains of sixty, the fire and energy of twenty!"

said Moreno glibly. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of a true son of the Revolution.

Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Equipage after equipage rolled up, containing fair women and brave men. The Palace was one blaze of light.

The crowd grew closer, enjoying the spectacle of the arriving guests, and it seemed a crowd that was at once good-humoured and appreciative, if at times critical.

Moreno turned to his companion. "I say, it's a bit of a shame that you and I are not inside instead of here, eh? I think Contraras might have worked that while he was about it."

Mrs Hargrave smiled back; she was very attracted by this black-browed young Spaniard.

"My dear friend, under the new regime, we shall all go to Court."

"To the Court of Contraras, I suppose?"

"Something of that sort," answered Violet, letting herself go a little.

"And Madame Contraras, more aristocratic than any queen, will smile condescendingly, and the pretty daughter will turn up her nose at us."

The conversation was getting dangerous. Mrs Hargrave must be checked in her impulsive moods, which, he honestly admitted, were very rare.

"Ah, if I could see dear old Contraras in that position I would die happy," he exclaimed, with a splendid mendacity.

Mrs Hargrave stole a quiet glance at him.

"Yes, he is very wonderful, is he not? But I can't honestly say I like his womenkind. They have no sympathy with his aspirations."

As they were speaking, a very gorgeous carriage rolled up. It contained the d.u.c.h.ess del Pineda and Valerie Delmonte. The Duke had not accompanied them. He had pleaded indisposition, but probably prudence had dictated his absence. Anyway, if certain things happened, it would be possible for him to plead a successful _alibi_.

"Look, look!" cried Violet Hargrave, a little excitedly for her.

"Valerie Delmonte!"

Moreno, the kindly-hearted, felt a spasm of pity as he gazed on the face of the handsome, fanatical young Frenchwoman, whom that wily old Contraras had subjugated to his evil will.

"Poor child!" he said aloud, for the benefit of his companion, "I can only hope she will not lose her nerve. It was a man's job, but she would insist upon having it."

There was a little lull in the procession of carriages. And then there drove up one conveying Guy Rossett and a colleague. The Amba.s.sador had already arrived, with his wife.

Moreno stole a glance at his companion. She was heavily veiled, but he could see that her face had grown pale, that a sad look had come into her eyes.

"Our admirable young diplomatist!" whispered the young man. "Well, Madrid is not a very safe place for him."

"But he is in no danger to-night I take it?" came back the answer in a whisper as low as his own.

"I should say not. For the present, we have left him out of our calculations; we are flying at higher game. He will hardly come within the sphere of Valerie's operations. His Chief may--I doubt even that."

Mrs Hargrave made no comment. Presently Moreno spoke in the same low whisper.

"You have no great affection for Mr Rossett, I take it?"

"No, I have not any great affection for Mr Rossett."

"And yet you were once very good friends."

Mrs Hargrave stiffened a little. "You seem to know a great deal of my private affairs. Yes, we once were very good friends. He knew my husband long before I married him. I fancy I have told you that."

Moreno was not to be daunted by her aloof att.i.tude. He was never wanting in enterprise.

"I should not be surprised if, at the present moment, you hated him."

"Perhaps you are right," was the curt answer.

Moreno indulged in a quiet inward chuckle. If she had known that Isobel Clandon was established so close to her lover, that through his adroit manipulation of affairs they were meeting every day, her hatred must have expressed itself more heartily.

Valerie Delmonte, under the wing of the unsuspecting d.u.c.h.ess, was now within the Palace.

She had only once before looked upon a scene approaching this, and it had been much less brilliant.

Once, early in their married life, her husband had taken her to one of the President's receptions in Paris. It was easy, in his position, to secure the entree for himself and wife.

She remembered that evening well. Never had she felt more humiliated.

Half a dozen times kind old Monsieur Varenne had introduced her to some of his acquaintances. There was a formal bow interchanged, and nothing beyond; one and all they had sheered off. Even in a republican and democratic country, these purse-proud citizens would have nothing to do with the girl who had come from the music halls.

She recalled how, when she had reached home that night, she had burst into a fit of wild sobbing, and her kindly, elderly husband had tried to comfort her.

"Calm thyself, _ma cherie_, we will not go to these hateful places again. We will lead our own life."

To-night, how different. A Court, one of the oldest in Europe, reflecting that atmosphere of pomp and state a.s.sociated with long descended Royalty. The kindly young King, his British-born Queen, chatting graciously with their favoured guests. Men in resplendent uniforms and orders, great ladies of the highest Spanish n.o.bility, what a contrast to the homely reception of the President in those far-off days!

Then she had been escorted by a very wealthy but somewhat shady financier, whose influence had not been sufficient to enable her to scale the social heights to which she had aspired.

To-night she was under the wing of a popular chaperon, in whose veins ran the proudest blood of Spain. The d.u.c.h.ess, acting according to instructions, introduced her to everybody she came across.

Mademoiselle Delmonte, handsome, brilliant, and vivacious, was an immediate success. This aristocratic a.s.semblage, ignorant of her antecedents, only recognising that she was under the wing of the popular d.u.c.h.ess, took her at her real valuation.

Being a woman, she was naturally pleased with her momentary success.

But she was sensible enough to know to what she owed it. If these people who were flattering her now had known of her lowly origin, how she had graduated through the circus and the music hall to the possession of wealth, they would have turned their backs on her, as the purse-proud parvenus had done in the democratic salons of the French President.