Chapter Six.

“You got all this information from perfectly reliable sources, Rossett?”

The question was asked by the Honourable Percy Stonehenge, His Majesty’s Ambassador to the Spanish Court, as the two men sat together in the Ambassador’s private room.

“Perfectly reliable, sir. I have given you in strict confidence the names of my informants. They are not the sort of men who make mistakes.”

Mr Stonehenge, true type of the urbane and courteous diplomatist, a man of old family, knitted his brow, and pondered a little before he spoke again.

“I had a private letter from Greatorex about this matter. There is no doubt great activity everywhere, but especially in this country. Well, the information you have collected is most valuable. It will be given to the King and his advisers, and they must take the best measures they can.”

Stonehenge shook his head sadly, after a prolonged pause. “Revolution, my dear fellow, is in the air all over Europe. Even in our commonsense and law-abiding country, there are ominous growlings and mutterings. Everywhere, the proletariat is getting out of hand. Sometimes I feel grateful that I am an old man, that what I dread is coming will not come in my time.”

Rossett assented gravely. He was taking himself quite seriously now. His deep love for Isobel Clandon had purified him of light fancies. His promotion to this post at Madrid had suggested to him that he might bid adieu to frivolous pursuits, and do a man’s work in the world, prove himself a worthy citizen of that vast British Empire of which he was justly proud.

Personally, he would have preferred Paris or Rome, or even Vienna. But, at the same time, he was greatly attracted by Spain.

A small nation now, it had once been a great one, attaining its zenith under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It had produced great geniuses in the immortal domain of the arts—Cervantes, Lopez de Vega, Murillo.

Once it had lain prostrate under the iron heel of the Conqueror. Napoleon, who had overrun all Europe, had subjugated the once invincible Spain, crushing her and governing her through the puppet King, his brother, Joseph Bonaparte.

Then had come the time of liberation, and the thunder of the British guns, under the leadership of Wellington, had freed her from the foreign yoke.

Rossett was very delighted with his chief, one of those sane men of affairs, a perfect aristocrat with just sufficient business instinct, who can safely be appointed to an important post. A man who thought clearly, saw far ahead, and made few mistakes, a man at once calm, temperate, and equable.

This Ambassador, on his side, had welcomed him warmly. With the natural prejudice of his class, he always preferred his colleagues to come from the old governing families; they thought his thoughts, they spoke his language. If sometimes they lacked a little in brains and initiative, they had a large balance on the right side in deportment and integrity, two very important assets, especially in a monarchical country.

Besides, he was an old friend of Lord Saxham. They had been colleagues together in their youth. Lord Saxham was of a too violent and volcanic temperament to rise high in the diplomatic or any other profession. Had he possessed a little more balance, he might have sat in many cabinets. But no Prime Minister who knew his business could run the risk of including him. But, none the less, he exercised a certain outside influence.

Rossett wrote every day to his beloved Isobel; if he had time, long letters; if diplomatic affairs were pressing, short ones, assuring her of his unalterable affection. Isobel wrote every day also, most voluminous epistles, covering six or eight sheets of the flimsy notepaper.

He wrote once a week to his dear sister, Mary, only second in his heart to Isobel. And Mary also replied at great length, but she was not quite so voluminous as Isobel. Her letters were generally taken up with reviewing, with her kind, gentle humour, the tantrums of her father, who appeared to be growing more explosive than ever.

Rossett had exchanged one letter with his father, to which he got a reply. Lord Saxham was not a great letter-writer, he kept to the point, and used as few words as possible.

“Glad to hear you are getting on with Stonehenge—a very good fellow! Stick to it, my dear boy, and I will work for you at this end with Greatorex. We shall see you an Ambassador yet.”

Guy smiled when he got this brief reply. He knew as well as Mary that his father did not care twopence as to whether he got on in his profession or not. He was only glad his son was out in Spain, because his sojourn in that country separated him from Isobel Clandon. How frightfully obstinate he was!

He often longed for his sweetheart, but still the days were very pleasant. He speedily found himself popular in the society of Madrid. He had been received graciously by the King, who knew England well, equally graciously by the Queen, in her maidenhood a Princess of our own British stock.

One man in particular had sought to attach himself to him, a man a few years older than himself, a certain Duke del Pineda.

Pineda was a handsome-looking fellow who bore himself well, dressed immaculately, and was received at Court and by the best society. Unquestionably, so far as birth and antecedents were concerned, he was a Spanish Grandee of the first water. And his manners were charming.

But, all the same, there were certain whispers about him. To begin with, it was well-known that he was impecunious. And a Spanish duke, like an English one, is always looked at askance when he is suspected of impecuniosity. A Duke has no reason to be short of ready money.

Stonehenge, who had watched the growing intimacy between the two men, spoke to Rossett one day about it.

“You seem very great friends with Pineda, I observe, Guy.” The Ambassador had fallen into the habit of calling him by his Christian name.

Rossett looked at his chief squarely. “Yes, sir, we go about a good deal together. Of course, you have a reason in putting the question.”

“He is not on the list of ‘suspects’ you gave me.”

Guy smiled quietly. “No, but I think he will be very soon.”

Mr Stonehenge gave a sigh of relief. “I see you know your business. I don’t know that Pineda has yet definitely decided, but he will swim with the tide. If there is a revolution he will try to lead it, like Mirabeau. In the meantime, he keeps in with both parties.”

“I have led him on to a few disclosures already,” observed Rossett.

“Ah, that is good. I can see that if you stick to it, you will fly high. Of course, you know he is as poor as a church mouse.”

There was a little grimness in Rossett’s smile as he answered: “I am quite sure of that.” Stonehenge looked at him keenly. “Ah, I don’t want to be curious, but he has borrowed money of you?”

The other nodded. “A trifle, sir. I thought it was worth it. I shall lose it, of course, and although I have done it in the interests of my country, I don’t suppose the Government will make it up to me.” The Ambassador laughed. “Virtue is its own reward in this profession, my dear Guy. They can subscribe any amount to the party funds, but they won’t give an extra penny to the men who serve them well. Anyway, I am glad you have taken the measure of Pineda. He has really no brains.”

“An absolute ass,” corrected Rossett, “an absolute ass, with more than a normal share of vanity.”

“A most accurate description,” assented the chief. “But, with his birth and connections, he might temporarily make a decent figurehead. Monarchies have had their rois fainéants. Revolutions when they start have upper class and middle-class puppets to lead them. Afterwards, as we know, these are displaced by the extreme element.”

Rossett had found no difficulty in financing the impecunious Spanish grandee. For Great-Aunt Henrietta, on hearing of his promotion, had forwarded him a very substantial cheque.

Out of this, he had paid off Mr Jackson, and was able to take up his new post with a clean sheet. Needless to say that his sister Mary, the most honourable of women, was delighted at the position of affairs.

While events were progressing in Spain, Moreno the journalist had called on his old friend Farquhar at the familiar chambers in the Temple. It was a few days after Moreno’s initiation into the brotherhood by Luçue—the initiation which had been followed by that very significant interview with Violet Hargrave.

The visitor’s keen glance detected at once that his old friend looked gloomy and depressed. And, in truth, Farquhar was in no jubilant mood. His rejection by his pretty cousin, Isobel, the knowledge that another man had secured what he so coveted, was weighing upon him heavily.

He pulled himself together on Moreno’s entrance, and extended a cordial hand. He was a very reticent man, and always hid his feelings as much as possible.

“Great things have happened since I last saw you, my friend,” cried the journalist gaily. “I am now a full-fledged member of the brotherhood, the great brotherhood. You remember I told you I was going to be initiated?”

Yes, Farquhar remembered. Moreno had mentioned the fact, and he had been interested. He had thought at the time his friend was running great risks, but no doubt the journalist was playing his own game in his own subtle way.

Since that conversation, his own affairs had made him forgetful of everything save the daily duties of his profession, duties which he never neglected.

He smiled genially. “When are you going to blow us all up? You haven’t brought a bomb in your pocket by any chance?”

Moreno shook his head. “Much too crude, my good old friend. We work in a more subtle way than that, by peaceful and pacific means.”

He knew Maurice Farquhar well enough, so sure was he of the sterling character of the man, to trust him with his life. This reserved, somewhat priggish barrister would no more reveal a confidence than a Roman Catholic priest would betray the secrets of the confessional.

At the same time a man in his delicate and dangerous position must be doubly and trebly cautious. He must put even Farquhar off the scent, till the day arrived when he could speak freely.

He spoke a moment after, in a rather abrupt tone. “Forgive me for putting a certain question to you, and, believe me, it is not dictated from any spirit of impertinent curiosity. You remember our meeting your cousin and Guy Rossett? I told you I formed certain conclusions with regard to their relationship. Have you by any chance had an opportunity of testing the accuracy of the opinion I formed?”

For a moment Farquhar was at the point of telling this most inquisitive journalist to mind his own business, and not to pry into matters that, to all appearances, were no concern of his.

Then he remembered that he had known the man for many years, and during the period of a very intimate acquaintance he had never known him guilty of a breach of good taste.

Moreno had expressly stated he was animated with no spirit of impertinent curiosity. In short, he had apologised for putting the question. He then had some subtle and convincing reason for putting it.

Farquhar spoke more frankly than he had at first thought would be possible under the circumstances.

“After what you said, I made it my business to inquire. I am very greatly attached to my uncle and cousin. Whatever affects the welfare of either is deeply interesting to me.”

He paused a few seconds. It was hard to admit to Moreno that his suspicions were justified. And he was gaining a little time by expressing himself in these cautious and judicial words, words of course which told the keen young journalist what he wanted to know, without need of further speech.

“It is, as you surmised, an absolute secret to all but a very few,” resumed Farquhar, after that brief pause. “You diagnosed the situation perfectly. Rossett’s father is, at the present moment, the stumbling-block.”

“Thanks for your perfect frankness,” answered Moreno easily. The next question was one still more difficult to put, for he had guessed the situation as regards Farquhar quite easily. The barrister was in love with Isobel Clandon himself, had delayed too long in his wooing, and too late learned the bitter truth, that a more enterprising lover had carried her off.

“I take it that since you are greatly attached to your cousin, as well as your uncle, you would be disposed to help Rossett, in the event of his needing a friend?”

There was no reserve in the voice that replied.

“Yes, any man whom my cousin loves, whether he is her lover or husband, will find in me a friend.”

Moreno nodded his head. He could not say how much he appreciated this attitude, for he was sure that Farquhar was genuinely in love with Isobel. And he was sure now of what he had known all along, that the man was perfectly straight and honest, devoid of any petty or dishonouring meanness. Self-sacrifice could go no further than this—to assist Isobel’s lover.

“I am very glad to hear that, Farquhar. For the moment, my lips are sealed. Even to you, my greatest friend, I cannot tell all. But the day may come when danger will threaten Guy Rossett. It will be well then to know who are the friends on whom he can rely. It may be, when that day comes, you can help, perhaps you cannot. But, if you can, I shall count upon you.”

“I have given you my promise,” replied Farquhar simply. “For the sake of Isobel Clandon, I will help Guy Rossett, if my assistance is of any use.”

A couple of hours later, Moreno left his friend’s chambers, after talking on other and impersonal subjects.

Shortly after that interview between the two men, there was a meeting at Maceda’s restaurant. It was a special function, convened especially by the great Luçue himself. There were only six people present, the chief himself, Maceda, who, on this very particular occasion, had delegated the conduct of his establishment to his second in command, Jackson, otherwise Jacques the moneylender, the Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, Violet Hargrave, and Andres Moreno, the latest recruit.

The repast this time was of a much simpler nature. It lacked the elegance and profusion characteristic of the ordinary assemblages, when the affairs of the brotherhood was discussed in a general fashion. It was evident from these symptoms, concluded Moreno, that something of importance, some stern business was in the air.

When the comparatively simple meal had been finished; Luçue opened the proceedings, speaking as usual in French.

“I had hoped that our brother from Barcelona, Jaime Alvedero, would have been with us to-night,” he explained to his fellow-conspirators. “But grave affairs have detained him. He is, as you know, technically my superior, but he has written to me, authorising me to act with full authority in this very important matter of Guy Rossett. For the benefit of our latest member, Andres Moreno, I will just explain how, at the present moment, this young Englishman is a serious menace to the brotherhood.”

Moreno looked expectantly in his chief’s direction. He already knew a great deal of what Luçue was going to explain at length for the journalist’s benefit, but he was too wide-awake to betray this. He appeared profoundly moved by his chief’s disclosures.

He assumed an expression of the greatest gravity when Luçue had finished, for he knew that this apparently genial and most astute person was watching him narrowly.

“It is a very serious menace, his appointment to the Court of Spain, as he will be on the spot,” he commented quietly at the conclusion of the long harangue. “It must be counteracted in some way and speedily. As the newest member of this association, it does not become me to offer suggestions. I leave these to wiser and more experienced heads.” He looked meaningly at the other three men, who he knew were the acknowledged chiefs of this particular section of the great brotherhood.

Luçue indulged in a smile of approval. Like most great men, he was not a little vain, and easily won by judicious flattery.

“Our brother Moreno is very modest,” he said pleasantly. “But I have no doubt in a short space we shall find him one of our wisest counsellors. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a short way with people who try to thwart our well-laid plans.”

Moreno played splendidly. He knew that, as the newest recruit, and with English blood running in his veins, he had to justify himself.

“That is true statesmanship,” he said, in a voice of deep conviction. “For although, for the time, we do not hold the reins of power, I am convinced that we are better and more far-seeing statesmen than those whom at the moment misgovern and oppress the world.”

There was loud applause at this speech. The good-looking Frenchwoman clapped her hands loudly. Jackson and Maceda grunted audible approval. Luçue’s aspect grew more benign. Violet Hargrave smiled her charming smile, which might mean anything, approval or disapproval. At least, so Moreno thought.

He was not quite sure of her yet. Was she, through some inexplicable warp of temperament, devoted heart and soul to the schemes of this infamous association, or was she, like himself, playing a double game?

“Since we are all united on our policy,” broke in Luçue’s bland tones, “it only remains to settle the means.”

There was a stir in the small assembly. The Frenchwoman leaned forward eagerly; Moreno did the same. He had no doubt of her fidelity to the cause. He could not follow a safer guide.

But after a longer discussion, they were unable to form any settled plan. They all felt it was almost impossible to engineer the matter from England. Finally, they agreed to refer it back to Alvedero, who had the advantage of being on the spot.

Then Luçue made a suggestion. “I propose that our comrades, Violet Hargrave and Andres Moreno, set out for Spain to confer with the leaders there. I suggest them for this reason—being partly English, they will be able to move about more freely, be less liable to suspicion on account of that fact.”

Moreno and Violet Hargrave nodded their heads in confirmation of their acceptance of the task assigned them.

Moreno shuddered inwardly, as he recalled the blood-curdling oaths which had been administered to him. On Violet Hargrave’s face had come a sudden expression which he could not quite define. He was inclined to think that it reflected a certain happiness in the prospect of doing harm to Guy Rossett.

The meeting broke up, and they went down the stairs together. When they reached the door, Violet spoke.

“Come to my flat to-night, as you did when you were first initiated,” she said, in the voice that sounded so sweet and womanly. “It is evident that you and I are going to be very closely associated,”—she shot at him a coquettish glance—“whether you desire it or not.”

A man wholly Spanish on his father’s side was not likely to be deficient in gallantry.

“There is nothing I desire more, Mrs Hargrave. Apart from the importance of our common aims and aspirations, there is nothing in our brief association with the brotherhood that has given me greater pleasure than the fact that I have been enabled to make your acquaintance.”

They hailed a passing taxi, stepped in, and drove to the flat in Mount Street.