Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the
lower quarters of Madrid.
One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres
Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his
sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular role. The danger that
he ran added a spice to his enjoyment.
The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so
successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for
anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily
recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman.
That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted
messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus:
"Dear Mr Rossett,--You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy,
when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will
not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all
for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like
to have a brief chat with you this afternoon."
The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable
quarters of the town.
He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once
recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening
distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when
General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew's associate,
a man of whom Guy had some recollection.
The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett
deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the
Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard.
Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the
country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended
working-man. Moreno waved it away.
"We will have cigarettes, if you please," he said, in a low voice.
"Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much
longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to
meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble
and unprosperous working-man."
Rossett bowed to his companion's superior judgment. Moreno knew the
ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the
Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.
"Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here,
Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post."
Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to
know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was
intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life,
nobody can be entirely trusted.
"Do you mind explaining a little more fully," he said cautiously.
Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other's caution. Rossett
had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.
"My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a
good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you
over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal
of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am
I right?" Guy nodded. "So far, you are right."
It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a
delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he
said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information
that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his
swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had
been at the back of Rossett's promotion, for certain private reasons.
"I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with
this appointment." Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought
this cosmopolitan was presuming.
"I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter."
Moreno assented blandly. "Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your
family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very
charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the
Savoy."
"What do you know, or guess?" asked Rossett angrily.
"Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your
friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for,
in the double role I am playing, I have to be very cautious."
"Please go on," said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident
sincerity of his companion.
"For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an
interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to
whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be
of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret
Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care."
"Yes, I know that," assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his
chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations.
Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably
well informed.
"I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very
good advice?" was the Spaniard's startling question.
Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very
extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the
man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties.
"I will tell you when you have offered it," answered the young diplomat
curtly.
A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently
he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily
away, speaking in Spanish.
"One of the gang," he whispered to Rossett. "The city is honeycombed
with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English."
He paused a moment before he spoke again.
"My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some
pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you;
mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be
ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand."
"Why should I do this?" queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him
steadily. "Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay
here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely
to provide you with a grave."
For a second, Rossett's face blanched. He was young, and death seemed
far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very
near.
"Why, why?" he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the
eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background.
Moreno looked in the same direction. "You see that scoundrel yonder,
whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do
hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the
brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put
you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings.
Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog's
chance."
Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting
itself. "I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away
before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst."
"Think of the girl you love," pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the
young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him.
A spasm of pain crossed Rossett's face. On the one hand, home and love,
Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of
the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man
of his breed?
"I will stay," he said doggedly. "And, if I put the issue to her,
Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win
through to safety."
Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. "You have
the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal," he said, "but
you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you
were back in England."
"I go back in honour, not as a fugitive," answered Guy quietly, as the
two men walked together out of the restaurant.
"If that man had known who you were," observed Moreno, as they passed
the waiter, "he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my
friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall
let you know how things are going on."
And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a
question.
"But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet
Street say to your absence?"
Moreno smiled his subtle smile. "My dear friend, I am sending weekly
articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally
delightful population. In short, I am `booming' Spain. I am the
innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday."