Chapter Fifteen.

A week had passed since the conversation between Valerie Delmonte and Contraras had taken place. A great function was on at the Royal Palace to-night. All the élite of Madrid would be there.

For this special occasion, the leading members of the Spanish section had shifted from Fonterrabia to the capital—Zorrilta, Alvedero, Violet Hargrave, Andres Moreno. Contraras and Valerie Delmonte had already taken up their residence there. It was the night of the great coup, on the successful development of which depended the dawn of the new era.

Moreno had a busy day. Thanks to the noble-spirited action of Mademoiselle Delmonte, who had taken the entire execution of the coup upon herself, he was spared any active participation in it. Violet Hargrave, who had been originally named as an assistant, was also dispensed with.

At eleven o’clock in the morning, he was seated in the private room of the Head of the Spanish Secret Service. There was also present the Head of the Police. The three men talked together for a very considerable time. Moreno was attired in his shabby workman’s garb; he had on also a false beard and moustache.

When the interview was terminated, Moreno rose; and turned to the Chief of Police.

“You have thought it all out then? You know she will come with the Duchess del Pineda.”

“She will be watched from the moment she enters the Palace to the moment she leaves it,” was the chief’s confident reply.

“And you say that the Duchess is quite ignorant of her intentions?” It was the Chief of the Secret Service who spoke.

“I will swear to the innocence of the Duchess, also to that of the Duke. They are simply tools. They have been made use of by a superior intelligence, by a man who has a strong hold over the Duke.”

“I wish, Mr Moreno, you were able to take us a little more into your confidence. Would it not be possible to bag the whole lot to-night?”

The Chief of the Police rubbed his hands at the thought. “Ah, that would be a fine idea. And I suppose, Mr Moreno, you have it in your power to enable us to do so?”

“Gently, gentlemen, if you please. Don’t be ungrateful. I am helping you somewhat to-night. And because I am doing this, you want to rush things,” answered the young journalist in his usual quiet way. “Now, look you, much as I desire to serve you, I have a very tender regard for my own skin.”

“Naturally,” cried the Secret Service man. And the Chief of Police echoed him.

“The secret of this project to-night has been entrusted to a good many people,” continued Moreno. “If it fails, as you promise me it will fail, two things will occur to the mind of the Chief—one that the brotherhood has been betrayed by one in their counsels, the other that your spies noticed something suspicious in the behaviour of the woman, and that she was arrested on the strength of that suspicious behaviour.”

The two men nodded their heads. They began to see the drift of his observations.

“I was at first designed to take part in this project, but the original programme was altered. Had it been adhered to, I think I could have enabled you to bag the whole lot, at any rate, most of them, and yet escaped scot free myself, of course with your co-operation.”

“We dare not ask you to disclose your plan?” insinuated the Secret Service man gently.

Moreno shook his head. “I think not. But if this coup fails, there will be another planned shortly. By that time my ideas will be perfected, and I trust I shall be able to do what you want, and escape with a whole skin. Only one member of the brotherhood will be here to-night. The others are scattered about. Suspicion would at once fall upon me if every one except myself were taken.”

“We could work that out pretty easily, could we not?” queried the Chief of Police eagerly.

“I think not,” was Moreno’s answer. “You would have got this lot out of the way, but there are a few members of the brotherhood left in London, and every man has a knife handy. I must show a clean sheet to those who remain at large. Please trust me, and I will shortly do it in my own way.”

Moreno left after cordial hand-shaking. Both the Chiefs were men of considerable astuteness, and great experience. But they agreed that there was a certain subtlety about this young man, a certain suggestion of strength and confidence, that won their admiration.

Moreno perhaps did not repose quite so much confidence in them as they did in himself.

“I hope to heaven they won’t bungle it at the last minute,” he said to himself as he walked along. “If I were dealing with the French police, I shouldn’t have a doubt.”

He walked down the Puerta del Sol, past the Grand Hotel de la Paix. He saw the tall form of Contraras enter the vestibule. He shrugged his shoulders, and a look of regret stole over his face.

“He is going to hearten her up for this night’s work, the old devil, while he stands safely outside, and looks on. Poor little woman! I wish I could save her. But how can you save a fanatic?” So ran his thoughts. “Why in the name of wonder does a woman who has got everything in the world she requires want to mix herself up with this wretched and bloodthirsty crew? She must lie on the bed she has made, and it will be a pretty hard one, I should wager.”

Moreno walked swiftly in the direction of a poor quarter of the town. He entered the humble abode of an inferior member of the Spanish Secret Service, where he doffed his working-man’s garb and assumed his ordinary clothes.

Later on, he saw Violet Hargrave, who was living close to him.

Violet seemed very restless and perturbed. “This is the great night,” she said by way of greeting. “I wonder if it will come off all right.”

“I should say there is every chance it will, unless Valerie’s nerve fails her at the last moment,” was Moreno’s diplomatic answer.

Mrs Hargrave gave a little shudder. Her pretty delicate face went a shade paler.

“I cannot help feeling glad that I wasn’t brought into it.”

Moreno bent upon her his keen glance. “And yet I should not put you down as a very tender-hearted person.”

“I don’t know that I am, or should be under certain circumstances. But I have no grudge against these people, no particular wrong to avenge. Aren’t you really glad you are out of it?”

“I suppose, in a way, I am. Still, one feels a bit of a coward in letting Valerie take all the risk. It seems taking advantage of her bravery, to snatch at the chance of avoiding all danger for oneself.”

“I shall sit up very late, on the chance of hearing the news.”

“On the contrary, I think I shall go to bed early,” said Moreno. “We shall hear nothing to-night in this distant quarter. And in the morning there will be the news, or no news at all. The Chief will let us know.”

The great Contraras, very upright and vigorous for his age, was shown into Mademoiselle Delmonte’s sitting-room. She sprang up eagerly at his entrance.

“I am so glad you have come. You are a little late, are you not? Luncheon will be served in a few moments.”

He could see she was very restless, and her cheeks were pale; there was a strange, almost unnatural brilliance in her dark eyes. Her voice was jerky.

He took both her hands in his and pressed them tenderly. “You are not afraid, Valerie?”

He was a fanatic, bold, brutal, and ruthless in his fanaticism, ready to sacrifice anything and everybody to the one absorbing idea. But at the sight of those pale cheeks, that quivering mouth, a momentary regret assailed him. He was a father, and this beautiful young woman was young enough to be his daughter.

“We ought to have had a man for this job,” he said, speaking a little hoarsely. “But you know you chose it yourself; you would not even have another associated with you.”

“I know.” She tried to laugh lightly, but there was a quaver in the laugh. “I do not regret. I am not really afraid. But I suppose every soldier on his first battlefield has inward tremors that he cannot repress. I am a soldier of the Revolution, and to-night is my first battlefield.”

“And you feel those tremors, eh?”

“Just a little, although I blush for them. But don’t let us think of this. Ah, here comes lunch.” They sat down to the meal. She was a very abstemious woman, and rarely partook of stimulants. But, in honour of Contraras’ visit, she had ordered a bottle of champagne. Under its exhilarating influence, her jangled nerves readjusted themselves, and she became her natural self. The colour returned to her cheeks.

She raised her glass and nodded to her guest.

“To the new world, born upon the ruins of the old.”

“Amen to that wish!” cried Contraras fervently, as he drank his wine in one long draught.

There was a long pause, which she broke abruptly. “I think I have told you I made my will in London last year.”

Contraras nodded. “Yes, you told me that.”

“But I did not tell you the details. I have left all my money in the hands of the Public Trustee, to divide amongst certain charities. As private fortunes go, it is a fair one—but what a small sum to go to the alleviation of this vast amount of human misery!”

“You could not have made a better use of it,” said Contraras appreciatively.

“To you, my dear friend, I have left twenty thousand pounds to devote to whatever purpose you think fit. Of course you will apply that money to the spreading of the propaganda.”

“I much appreciate your kind thought, my dear Valerie; it is just like you. But may the day be far distant when—”

She raised her hand. “We will speak no more of that, please. I wonder what will be the result of to-night?”

“Success!” cried Contraras confidently. “Success!”

A few minutes later he rose to go.

“The Duchess will call for you in her carriage. Once arrived at the Palace, keep under her wing for some time, so as to avoid suspicion. Then seize your time and opportunity. Would you like me to come round and see you before you start? But I shall look out for you at the Palace.”

For a moment she did not answer him, she was pursuing the train of her own thoughts.

“I never told you I had my fortune told by a gipsy when I was sixteen. Would you like to know what she predicted?”

“If you wish,” replied Contraras politely. He had no respect for gipsies or their prophecies.

“Ah, I see it won’t interest you. I don’t think you believe much in the spiritual side of existence. Still, I will tell it; it will not take a moment. Up to the present, it has come remarkably true. This gipsy, she was a very old woman, predicted that I should have a very hard life for some years, then would come some years of great good fortune, and then—equally great tribulation.”

Contraras smiled. “My dear child, she probably predicted precisely the same things hundreds of times to her clients. The veil of the future is not to be lifted by a wandering beggar-woman.”

“Of course, I knew you would not be impressed, or perhaps you just say it to cheer me.”

She had forgotten his question—should he come and see her again before she started for the Palace? He repeated it.

“No, my good friend, I would rather not. If all goes well, we shall meet again often. If not, we will say good-bye here. A thousand thanks for your friendship and kindness.”

Could fanaticism go further? She was thanking this hardened old schemer for his friendship and kindness—friendship and kindness that were ready to sacrifice her at any moment for his own ends.