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-fashioned 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 password, 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,
nobody 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 space, 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 assumed name, shook
him cordially by the hand. "And so, you are one of us?"
"Yes, very much so," replied Moreno quietly.
"Our friend Lucue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful
man."
Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda.
"A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause
triumphs, it will be due to him." Another worshipper, thought Moreno,
with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious,
with a whole-hearted worship of their leader.
The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile.
"All here, except the two ladies," he said. "We must wait for the
ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience."
As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman,
the other as obviously an Englishwoman.
Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed
to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand.
"Always late, my dear Violet," he said, "but better late than never."
Then Lucue bustled up, and took the situation in hand.
"Now, Jackson, you mustn't monopolise one of the two charming young
women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his
half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish,
his mother was English."
The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the
flower and fruit-laden table. Lucue, probably through inadvertence had
not mentioned the woman's name.
Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very
charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty
to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar
to him.
And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert
Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall
where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with
her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great
expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English.
"Our good friend Lucue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He
mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying
that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?"
Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with
suspicion.
"I think we had better talk in French, if you don't mind--it is the rule
here. It might annoy others if we didn't. Where did you know me, and
what do you know about me?"
Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the
world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease.
"I am a journalist, rather well-known in Fleet Street."
"Yes, I know that," answered Violet a little impatiently. "Lucue
mentioned your name, and it is, as you say, a well-known one. But you
have not answered my question. Where did you first know me?"
Moreno explained the little incident of the Albert Hall Bazaar.
"I see, then, you rather singled me out from the others," said Mrs
Hargrave, and this time the glance was more coquettish than suspicious.
"But I am more interested in this--what do you know about me?"
Moreno put his cards on the table at once.
"We journalists pick up a lot of odd information. I know that you are
an intimate friend of our friend Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, and one
of us; and that to a certain extent you help him in his business, by
introducing valuable clients."
"Oh, you know that, do you?" Mrs Hargrave's tone was quite friendly.
She respected brains, and this dark-faced young Anglo-Spaniard was not
only good-looking, but very clever. "Tell me some more."
"Well, I know that you still live in Mount Street, that you married Jack
Hargrave, who was never supposed by his friends to have any visible
means of subsistence. Also that at one time, you were a great friend of
Guy Rossett, the man who has just been appointed to Madrid."
"Oh, then you know Guy Rossett?"
"No," answered Moreno quietly. "I don't move in such exalted circles.
But I always hear of what is going on in high society, through my
influential friends."
She looked at him quizzically. "Have you many influential friends?" she
asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in her pleasant, low-pitched voice.
A slight flush dyed Moreno's swarthy cheek at what he considered her
impertinent question.
"More perhaps than you would think possible," he answered stiffly.
She read in his nettled tone that she had wounded his _amour propre_.
She hastened to make amends. She was always a little too prone to speak
without reflection.
"Oh please don't think I meant to be rude. But we soldiers of fortune,
and all of us here are that, are not likely to have many friends in high
places."
The journalist paid her back in her own coin.
"Not real friends, of course. But still, we swim about in many cross
currents. You yourself have a certain position in a certain section of
what we might call semi-smart society."
Violet Hargrave laughed good-humouredly. She was liberal-minded in this
respect, that she seldom resented a thrust at herself when she had been
the aggressor.
"Very neatly put. I have no illusions about my actual position. I am
not sure that my particular circle is even semi-smart, except in its own
estimation."
So peace was restored between them, and they chatted gaily together
during the progress of the meal. She had taken a great liking to the
brainy young journalist. And Moreno, on his side, was forced to admit
that she was a very attractive woman.
The grave and dignified Maceda, looking more like a nobleman than the
proprietor of an obscure restaurant, came up a few times, and talked in
confidential whispers with the principal guests. He chatted longest
with Lucue and the handsome young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who,
Moreno learned afterwards, stood high in the councils and the estimation
of the society.
After dinner, the waiters withdrew, the men smoked, and the two ladies
produced dainty cigarette cases. Then the business of the evening
began.
The genial Lucue, who looked the least ferocious of anarchists, opened
the proceedings. He gave a brief but lucid survey of what was going on
abroad, of the methods by which the great gospel of freedom was being
spread in different capitals.
The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who had dined well on the most
expensive viands, delivered a fiery and passionate harangue against the
great ones of the earth, the parasites and bloodsuckers who existed on
the toil of their poorer brethren.
Her speech roused the assembly to enthusiasm, Mr Jackson being
particularly fervent in his applause. No doubt, he believed himself to
be a philanthropist, insomuch as he levied his exactions on the leisured
classes; thus, in a measure, redressing the balance of human wrongs.
Moreno applauded with hardly less fervour than the moneylender, and he
was pleased to note that the eloquent Valerie shot a grateful glance at
him. He had already gained the confidence of Lucue. He felt sure, from
the reception accorded her, that she was only second to the great man
himself. If he could secure her good graces, his position would be
safe.
Some business, not of great importance, was discussed. Certain projects
were put to the vote. On one subject, Lucue and Mademoiselle Valerie
dissented from the majority. Moreno decided with the two, and the
majority reversed its verdict.
Violet Hargrave was, perhaps, the least enthusiastic of the party.
Truth to tell, she was studying the young journalist very intently. He
interested her greatly.
The proceedings ended. A meeting was arranged for next week at the same
place, when two members of the brotherhood were expected to arrive from
Barcelona with the latest reports of what was happening in Spain.
After a little desultory chatting in groups, Maceda's guests prepared to
depart.
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 glass 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
space, 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 association of
this kind."
"And when they are discovered, the penalty is death." Moreno spoke
quietly, but he felt an inward shiver. 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 unblushing 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 attitude 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."