"As an honourable man, you could not reveal the name of your informant?
I can give you my word, it is very important."
Guy thought for a few seconds. "No, I cannot give you the name of my
informant. It was done absolutely under the seal of secrecy."
"I understand," said Moreno. "And a very considerable price was paid to
the man--or woman--I am convinced it was a woman, who sold you this
information."
"Quite right. But why do you say it was a woman?" asked Guy Rossett
quickly.
"If I had not already been sure it was a woman, my friend, I should be
quite sure of it by your sudden question. You English people are not
quite so subtle as we who have southern blood in our veins."
Rossett bit his lip. He felt he had given himself away to this
quick-witted foreigner, nine-tenths Spanish and one-tenth English.
There was a long pause. Moreno shifted his point of attack.
"Do you know that Mrs Hargrave is over in Spain, in Fonterrabia?"
"What!" almost shouted Guy in his astonishment.
Moreno looked at him steadily. "Ah, you have not heard that from
headquarters. Well, you see, they don't know the little side-currents
as well as I do. They do not know, for instance, that she is a sworn
and apparently zealous member of the brotherhood."
"Violet Hargrave, of all people!" cried Rossett. He was in a state of
bewilderment.
"You know, I daresay, that Mrs Hargrave is no friend of yours now,
whatever she may have been once," said Moreno, speaking in his quiet,
level tones.
"Yes, I think I can understand that."
"Come, Mr Rossett, throw off a little of that insular reserve, and let
us talk together quite frankly. Believe me, I am speaking entirely in
your own interests. There is no doubt that, at one time, you paid Mrs
Hargrave very marked attention, that you fed her hopes very high."
"I was a bit of a fool, certainly," admitted Guy.
"And then, pardon me for speaking quite frankly, you threw her over
rather abruptly, because you had fallen in love with somebody else--a
woman, of course, a thousand times superior to the discarded one."
"You seem to know all about it, Mr Moreno."
"It is my business to know things," replied the journalist quietly.
"Well, it is a case of the `woman scorned,' you know. I should say the
fair Violet hated you now as much as she once loved you."
"It may be possible. I have a notion that you know women better than I
do."
"Bad women perhaps," said Moreno quietly. "My experience has lain
rather in their direction. I think I have only known three good women
in my life, two of whom were my mother and a girl I was once engaged
to--she died a week before our wedding day."
Rossett regarded him with a sympathetic gaze. So this swarthy,
black-browed young Spaniard had had his romance. His voice had broken
as he spoke of his dead sweetheart.
"I am sorry for your experience. Most of the women I have known have
been very good, the fingers of one hand would count the bad. But tell
me more about Violet Hargrave. She hates me, you say?"
"I should say with a very bitter and malignant hatred," was Moreno's
answer.
"All arising, of course, from jealousy or disappointment. How far is
this hatred going to lead her?"
"I should say to the furthest point."
Rossett recoiled. "You mean to say she can have so changed that she
would contemplate that?"
Moreno did not mince his words. "You will take my word for it that it
is revenge she seeks, and she will not hesitate. Her position in the
brotherhood will give her a very plausible excuse."
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 assure 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 destitute 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.