Chapter Twenty.

During these hot summer days, poor Isobel lived in alternate fits of hope and despair.

Guy visited her every day. He always seemed very cheerful, full of optimism. The forces of law and order must prevail; these mad anarchists, well organised as they were, and led by a most subtle brain, would be defeated very shortly. Once the Heads were taken, the movement would suffer a speedy eclipse.

But at times it seemed to her quick woman’s ears that there was a false note in his cheerful tones, that he was not so certain of the ultimate result as he pretended to be.

Moreno came to see her every day too. She had conceived a strong liking for the black-browed young journalist. Moreover, she had great faith in him.

Guy, of course, was her king amongst men. But she was not so hopelessly in love that she could not distinguish between the mental qualities of the two. Guy was very intelligent; he could snatch at the hints of others, and shape his course of conduct on them.

But Moreno had a subtle and penetrating intellect, a touch of genius. And he combined inspiration with prudence.

If Guy talked cheerfully when he was with her, her fears and doubts revived on his departure. Could he look all round and accurately weigh the chances?

When Moreno told her to cheer up, and promised that all would be well, she felt fortified. There was a sureness, a quiet power about the man that raised her drooping spirits.

“You are sure that you will beat them, you are sure you will save Guy?” she had asked him one day, when he had paid her a brief visit.

He spoke very deliberately. “I have outwitted them once before.” He looked a little gloomy as he spoke. It went to his kind heart to recall that on that occasion he had been compelled to sacrifice that charming young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte. “I shall outwit them again, believe me.”

His tone was very confident, Isobel thought. “I am sure you will lay your plans very well, Mr Moreno, but there is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“The cup will be carried to the lip this time without a falter.” He spoke with his usual assurance.

“Guy always speaks cheerfully too,” said Isobel in her simple, straightforward way. “But I am always doubtful when he leaves me.”

“Mr Rossett does not know what is in my mind, Miss Clandon. And I dare not tell him, for reasons of my own. An incautious confidence might utterly frustrate my plans. I have many helping me, but I have close at hand a man who is going to be my ablest lieutenant. Strange to say, you know that man well.”

Isobel lifted up to him startled eyes. “You bewilder me. I know so few people.”

“It will surprise you to know that your cousin, Maurice Farquhar, is in Madrid at the present moment and waiting to receive my instructions.”

“Maurice Farquhar in Madrid,” she repeated. “But why, but why?”

“Because I wanted to have a clear-brained, resolute Englishman at my right hand when the supreme moment came. I can’t tell you everything. I daren’t tell you much. Would you like to see your cousin? I can manage it easily.”

“Oh, I would love to,” replied Isobel promptly, speaking according to the dictates of her open, generous nature. Then she suddenly remembered that Guy had expressed a certain jealousy of her cousin. “But perhaps at the moment it might not be prudent. I am here incognita, in a rather difficult situation. Later on, perhaps.”

From those few halting phrases Moreno guessed accurately enough what was passing in her mind. She had a sincere affection, for her cousin, who came over here to assist her at the greatest personal inconvenience, but she would not see him, in case his visit might give offence to her lover. It is ever thus that self-sacrifice in love is rewarded.

“I quite understand,” he said. “Well, Farquhar is a white man, a man in a thousand. I wrung a promise from him some time ago that he would come over here to help me to save Mr Rossett. You can guess why he gave me that promise.”

“Yes,” answered Isobel in a low voice. “I can guess why he gave that promise. He wanted to help me. You cannot tell how mean I felt. Oh, I think I will risk it. Please ask him to come and see me.”

Moreno shook his head. “No, better perhaps not to risk it. Farquhar is content to do good by stealth. We cannot be quite sure of the view the other gentleman might take of it, if it came to his ears.”

Isobel felt a frightful coward, but she was relieved by Moreno’s words. Guy was very impetuous, and terribly jealous. She could not afford to rouse his suspicions. He left her feeling a little miserable and self-reproachful. Why could not men take a broad-minded view of things? Even if a girl were engaged, it did not follow that she should not be allowed to have a faithful friend.

She had grown very weary of Madrid. She hated the place and the people, under these most unhappy circumstances.

The good-natured Mrs Godwin had done her best to amuse her. She had taken her to the Museo del Prado, and pointed out to her the masterpieces of Velazquez, Murillo, Ribera, and other great masters. She had conducted her down the animated plaza of the Puerta del Sol. She had shown her the view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. They were too late for the Carnivals, and to a bull-fight Isobel would not go.

Moreno betook himself to the quarters of Farquhar. He found the self-contained young barrister stretched on a sofa, reading a French novel.

Farquhar was already a bit tired of it. On reflection, he was not quite certain if he had not been a little foolish in giving that promise. He had rushed over to Spain to help a man whose only claim to consideration lay in the fact that he had taken away from him the woman he wanted for his wife.

Then he thought of the charming Lady Mary, her warm praise and flattering words. When he got back to England and recounted his exploits to her, he was sure he would receive a very warm welcome. Farquhar threw down his book, and lighted a cigar. “Well, my good old friend, things seem devilish slow just now. Is anything going to happen shortly?”

Moreno nodded. “Things will happen the evening after to-morrow. Curb your impatience till then.”

“You have got it all cut and dried, then?”

“I think so. To-morrow morning I will take you to my excellent friend, the Chief of Police, and tell him that you represent me. We will spend an hour or two afterwards in discussing our plans. I have just come from Miss Clandon.”

“Ah,” said Farquhar, with affected carelessness—that name had still power to thrill him in spite of Lady Mary. “Did you find her quite well?”

“Perfectly, so far as her health is concerned, but naturally full of doubts and fears. I told her you were here; she was, of course, greatly surprised. She expressed a wish to see you.” This, of course, was not the strict truth, but Moreno always wanted to make everybody feel happy and comfortable.

A pleased expression stole over the man’s face. “Oh, she said that, did she?”

Moreno did not answer the question directly.

“I pointed out to her that, in my opinion, such a meeting might be extremely dangerous, and that it is essential you should lie very low.”

Farquhar accepted the glib explanation. Moreno had one of the greatest qualities of a diplomatist, that he could impress nearly everybody with his sincerity.

Next morning the two men interviewed the Chief of Police, or rather the Chief of Police, by appointment, interviewed them at the journalist’s modest lodgings. In the course of that interview many things were explained at length.

Moreno, always cautious, always on the look out for accidents, stood by the window, keeping a vigilant eye on passers-by. Farquhar and the Chief sat at the far end of the room.

Suddenly he espied the tall form of Contraras nearing the house. He bundled his guests into his bedroom. “The old devil! I had a suspicion he might turn up. It is quite safe here. If I give a loud whistle, get under the bed.”

But Contraras did not pay a long visit; he did not even sit down. He had only strolled round to ascertain that things were going right. Moreno, resolutely avoiding details, assured him that everything was in train. On the evening after to-morrow Guy Rossett would be delivered into the hands of the brotherhood, to be dealt with as they thought fit.

Contraras left well pleased. Moreno was certainly a great acquisition to the organisation. When he was well out of sight the two men were brought out of the bedroom.

The Chief of Police shook his fist vindictively in the direction of the vanished figure.

“I was itching to take the old scoundrel straight away, Mr Moreno,” he remarked.

The journalist smiled. “Impetuosity never pays, señor. You could have proved nothing if you had. A most respectable old gentleman, highly connected, through his wife, with some of the best families in the country, pays me a visit to inquire after my health, or perhaps to ask me to dinner at his hotel. You would not have made much out of it.”

The Chief cooled down immediately under this sensible speech. “You are a very wonderful man, Mr Moreno. You never allow yourself to be carried away by your feelings.”

He turned with his gracious foreign manner to Farquhar.

“I understand, sir, you are an old and trusted friend. I have no doubt that you have the same faith in his judgment that I have.”

On the afternoon of that same day Moreno went to see Violet Hargrave. He found her restless and agitated.

“You are sure that it will take place to-morrow night?” was her first question.

“I am as near sure as can be. Unless a miracle happens he will be brought up for judgment before the brotherhood,” was the answer.

Violet shuddered; her face went pale. “I have never been at one of their so-called trials, but it must be very horrible.”

“Neither have I,” said Moreno. “I see, like myself, you don’t anticipate much pleasure from it.”

“But you are going to save him, and I am going to help you,” she cried a little wildly. “You have not yet told me where I come in. The time is very short; you will have to speak soon. Why not speak now?”

The young man hesitated for a few seconds. How far should he trust her? Caution whispered not too far.

He spoke in a gloomy tone. “To tell you the truth, I am not so sure of saving him as I was. Certain things have happened which I had not taken into my calculations.”

He was watching her narrowly as he spoke, to note the effect upon her of his words. She clasped her hands together and her voice faltered.

“I am so in the dark, you tell me nothing, you keep everything to yourself.” She betrayed great agitation, but it was evident she believed his statements implicitly.

As a matter of fact, nothing had occurred to upset Moreno’s plans in the slightest degree. But there was something about which he had been a little careless. He had pretty well secured his own safety, but he had not secured hers.

“I cannot enter into a lot of explanations, when circumstances alter from hour to hour,” he said rather brusquely. “On the whole, I believe I have a better chance of saving him without your co-operation. Now, please don’t ask me why I think so!”

“I won’t, if you don’t wish it,” she answered submissively. “I wish you could have been more frank with me, have given me some hint of what you intend to do. It will be very terrible for me to be there, waiting on the turn of events.”

“You no longer desire revenge on Guy Rossett?” he asked, looking at her intently.

“Not that sort of revenge,” she answered truthfully. “For I suppose murder is in their thoughts.”

“I had a brief talk with Contraras this morning; he came round to my rooms. He was more frank than he usually is with his subordinates. I suppose he was pleased with the way in which I have, so far, conducted the affair. He thought there would be great difficulty in getting hold of Guy Rossett.”

“Will you tell me, some day, why you found it easy?”

“Some day, perhaps; but not now. To return to our chief, Contraras. He explained to me that he has no desire to remove this particular man, if he will fall into line with him. He frankly admits that he is too small game, that he would willingly avoid the odium that such a deed would bring on the brotherhood.”

“Ah!” Violet was very interested now. “If he falls in line with him. What does that mean? Or perhaps,” she added bitterly, “this is another secret that is to be hidden from me.”

“Not at all,” was the quiet answer. “I usually keep my own secrets, but I am not always so scrupulous with regard to the secrets of others. Contraras is going to offer him two alternatives. The first is—that he resigns from the Embassy on some plausible pretext, and takes a solemn oath to do nothing to thwart the brotherhood. The other alternative you can guess.”

“Death,” whispered Violet in a hollow voice, and her face went as pale as death itself.

“And you can guess what Rossett’s answer will be?” said Moreno, breaking the long silence that ensued between them after those significant words.

“I know, I know. He will choose death unless you can save him.” The woman in her came suddenly to the surface, and she broke down, sobbing bitterly.

Moreno looked at her steadily, but not unkindly, for a long time. Her emotion was genuine enough, he was sure. When the dastardly project had only been in the air, so to speak, she had not realised the full horror of it. Now that it was so near to accomplishment, she was stricken with remorse for having harboured such revengeful thoughts.

And presently he spoke again, in his quiet, deliberate accents.

“By a miracle, it may be possible for me to save him, if I can outwit them.”

“But cannot I help you? I know you do not believe much in the capacity of women, but I am not a fool, and in a crisis I believe my nerves are steady.”

“If it is fated for me to succeed, I shall work better alone. But I would like to ask you this. It will be a cruel ordeal for you to be present at this scene, especially at the moment when you will be called upon to record your vote as a member of the tribunal. Would you be grateful to me if I could save you from that ordeal?”

“Very, very grateful,” sobbed the now sorely stricken woman. “But it is impossible. I have seen Contraras to-day also. He has arranged for Alvedero to fetch me to-morrow evening, and to conduct me to that awful house where we are to receive Guy Rossett. It is impossible.”

“There are very few things in this world that are impossible,” said Moreno, a little impatiently. “The first idea I had was that you would frankly throw yourself on the compassion of Contraras, tell him that this man was once your lover, and that you must be excused from taking part in the proceedings on the ground of common humanity. The question is, would that work? It might, because I know he is still remorseful about the fate of Valerie Delmonte. But we are not sure. He is a fanatic of the deepest dye.”

“Absolutely a fanatic,” corroborated Mrs Hargrave. “To him the welfare of the brotherhood is the one supreme thing. All human emotions must be subjugated, all consideration of friends and kindred swept aside, in pursuance of the one object.”

“I am disposed to agree,” said Moreno. “Contraras’ sense of compassion is a doubtful factor. We will discard that idea. Will you put yourself in my hands?”

She looked intently into the dark, brilliant eyes, and what she read there reassured her. He was stubbornly secretive, but he was kind and sympathetic. He was ready to do his best to serve her.

“Yes, I will,” she said bravely. “I trust you.”

“Good! Then that is settled. Alvedero will call for you to-morrow evening as arranged, but you will not accompany him. He will come alone.”

“How are you going to do it?” she cried breathlessly. Her admiration for the man had grown intensely during the last few days. He seemed able to work miracles.

“I shall keep that a secret too till to-morrow morning, when I shall be round at eleven o’clock. If I told you now, you would not get a wink of sleep all night.”

“I shall not get a wink of sleep as it is,” she answered.

But, secretive to the last, Moreno was not to be tempted into frankness. “Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, you have promised to leave yourself in my hands. To-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock.”

They shook hands without another word. Moreno walked back to his lodgings reflecting deeply.

Was this attractive young woman really as bad as he had once thought? Was she not rather a creature of strong passions, of impulses at times ungovernable? Were there not in her womanly feelings that could be cherished and fostered by sympathetic companionship?

Anyway, if she followed his instructions, as she had agreed to do, he had secured her safety as well as his own. And that would be a result that would gratify him exceedingly.