Whither Thou Goest
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“Then why the devil doesn’t Greatorex recall him, as I have begged him to do. Good heavens! I have been supporting this wretched Government through thick and thin. Can’t they grant me this little favour? My poor boy! He doesn’t want their infernal promotion. He will inherit a big fortune from his great-aunt. He can snap his fingers at Greatorex and the rest of them.”
Suddenly he began to sob, and buried his head in his hands. “My poor murdered boy,” he moaned. “And Greatorex sent him to his death.”
Farquhar smoked on stolidly. He did not feel greatly attracted towards his host. Lady Mary shot a somewhat contemptuous glance at her penitent parent, who was seeking to throw the blame on Greatorex.
“Pay no attention to him,” she whispered across the table. “The Foreign Office is not to blame. He got Guy transferred abroad in order to separate him from Isobel. I have told you.”
Farquhar understood and nodded. He had already come to the conclusion that Lord Saxham was a very poor and weak creature – not a good specimen of his order. How had he become possessed of such a daughter, so gentle, so high-minded? There must have been some virility on the female side of the family.
He drove back to his chambers in a rather exhilarated frame of mind. Lady Mary was very charming. He had quite got over that first feeling that he was to be exploited for the benefit of the Rossett family. Mary had put that all right, in her gentle, persuasive way. She had expressly laid emphasis on the fact that she, at any rate, was pleased to welcome him for himself.
He dismissed his taxi, and climbed up the steep stairs to his suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. To his surprise, the light in the hall was burning.
What had happened? He went into the dining-room, a blaze of electric light.
Stretched on the sofa, puffing at a long cigar, was Andres Moreno, awaiting his arrival.
“The devil!” cried Farquhar shortly, sharply, and decisively.
Moreno waved a genial hand.
“Not exactly, old man, but one of his ambassadors. I say, I suppose you can give me a shake-down.”
“Of course, but why are you here? Why are you not in Spain?”
“All will be unfolded in good time, my boy. But what about a drink? I could do with one.”
“You know where the things are. Surely you could have helped yourself?” said Farquhar.
“Never care to drink alone, old man. By the way, I see you are in evening togs. Have you been dining with the aristocracy?”
“You’ve just hit it,” replied Farquhar, as he went to the sideboard and fetched out a decanter of whiskey. “I have been dining in Belgrave Square with the Earl of Saxham and his daughter. Lady Mary Rossett.”
“Good heavens, this might be called a coincidence,” cried Moreno, as he drained the refreshing draught offered to him.
Farquhar was rather impatient at any exhibition of humour. He frowned a little.
“Now, Moreno, out with it. What has brought you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you have not come all this long journey for nothing.”
But Moreno was still in high spirits that were not to be abruptly quenched.
“What a splendid Lord Chancellor you will make, always with both eyes on the practical, intolerant of anything that disturbs the even course of justice. Perfect embodiment of the legal mind. À votre santé, mon ami!” He drained his glass.
Farquhar looked at him critically. “You’re a bit of an ass to-night, aren’t you?”
“Not at all, most noble Festus. Never was I saner than I am at the present hour. Well, perhaps just at the moment I am suffering a little from swollen head. I, the poor Fleet Street journalist – you remember, Farquhar, how they used to despise me in the early days – have outwitted the keenest brains of the anarchists. I have made abortive their great coup.”
“I know,” said Farquhar generously. “My hearty congratulations, old man. But still, you have not come all this way to tell me that. You have something behind.”
Moreno’s manner changed at once. He sat down in an easy chair and became the solemn and grave personage who had important interests at stake.
“You remember an interview in these chambers a little time ago, when you gave me a certain promise?”
Farquhar remembered the incident well.
“Yes, I gave you a certain promise. You have come to remind me of it?”
“Are you overwhelmed with briefs?”
“I cannot exactly say I am overwhelmed with them, but I have enough to keep me going.”
“I see,” said Moreno quietly. He had cast aside his gay and chaffing mood; he was quite serious. “Can you depute those to somebody?”
“If it were imperative, I could.”
Moreno rose and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Good! Then I claim your promise. Pack your bag to-morrow morning and come with me to Spain. I am going to outwit them again. I might do it single-handed, but your assistance will be invaluable. Will you come?”
“It is to help Guy Rossett?”
“It is to help Isobel Clandon through Guy Rossett. I will explain everything as we travel together to-morrow.”
“I adhere to my promise,” said Farquhar. “I will make all my arrangements in the morning. I shall be at your disposal after twelve. How long will you want me for?”
“A week at the outside.”
Moreno stifled a yawn. In spite of his vigorous constitution, he was very tired.
“Let us turn in, old man. I feel as if I could sleep the clock round.”
Chapter Eighteen
Contraras paid a flying visit to London. It was a secret visit, that is to say he stayed in an obscure hotel in the East of London, not venturing to his house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue. His wife and daughter believed him to be still in Spain, from where he wrote letters to them at irregular intervals. He was far too busy to attend closely to domestic correspondence.
Moreover, like many great reformers, he had little in common with his family. His wife openly sneered at his doctrines; privately she thought he was a hypocrite who lacked the courage to practise what he preached, to lead the simple life which he was inculcating upon others. Their only child fully endorsed the mother’s sentiments.
Moreover, she was in love with a young man who had been attracted to her by the report of her father’s wealth. He was a poor cadet of an old and aristocratic family, and conservative to the backbone. The slightest word of this somewhat empty-headed young man outweighed the most profound arguments of the intellectual Contraras.
She was very dissatisfied with her parent, with what she considered his nonsensical theories of perfect equality. Miss Contraras was quite content to take the world as she found it. She did not trouble her head about the woes of the humbler classes. As long as she could live softly and have plenty of new frocks, she was happy. Why should people with brains trouble to keep those who could not keep themselves?
Contraras came over to be present at a special meeting of the English section of the brotherhood, held, as usual, at Maceda’s restaurant. The great coup had failed, but he was still undaunted, still full of resolution.
There were only about half a dozen choice spirits present. Maceda, for this special occasion, had delegated to his manager the task of looking after his comfortable little establishment.
Both Luçue and the restaurant keeper greeted their Chief with a sorrowful air. Maceda voiced their mutual sentiments.
“The iron must have entered into your soul, comrade. So near to success, and then to fail. And then, the fate of poor Valerie, so bright, so clever, so full of enthusiasm for the cause!”
The leader’s voice broke a little as he answered: “Alas, poor Valerie – a fate worse than death. How she will eat out that brave heart of hers in their loathsome dungeons!”
He passed his hand across his brow, as if in that action he was trying to brush away a painful reminiscence. But the next moment he was again the man of action, of indomitable resolve.
“I think never again will I sanction the use of women in enterprises of this character, however willing they may be to take the risk and pay the penalty of failure. And now to our immediate business. How are things progressing in this country?”
Both Luçue and Maceda, but especially the former, who had only the business of the propaganda to attend to, gave him a most encouraging report.
There was great dissatisfaction amongst the masses, a growing hatred of the class that neither toils nor spins. Many of the most influential leaders were in secret sympathy with their doctrines, and only waited for a favourable moment to come out into the open.
The fanatical Contraras rubbed his hands; his brow cleared. He had forgotten Valerie Delmonte, that too responsive instrument upon whose warped feelings he had so skilfully played. She was only a martyr in a righteous cause.
He listened eagerly to the details with which Luçue supplied him. He could see already the dawn of that universal revolution which, if it came to pass, would claim him for one of the earliest victims.
And then, when Luçue had finished, the elder man spoke a little impatiently.
“But why did we fail in Madrid? Have you suspicions of anybody? After all, the secret was very carefully guarded. How many of us knew?” Luçue shrugged his shoulders. “Is it much use going into that? We might all suspect each other. Moreno was over here a short time ago. We conversed together on the subject.”
“Ah, Moreno was over here, was he?” The Chief’s brows knitted; he spoke in a suspicious voice. “Do you know on what business?”
“Purely private affairs, I understand. Something connected with his journalistic profession. But we were discussing the matter, and he suggested a very reasonable theory.”
“And what was that?” interrupted Contraras. “His opinion was, to start with, that women should never be employed in enterprises of this character, because they had not sufficient nerve. His theory is that there was no treachery from our side, because if there had been they would never have allowed her to get inside the Palace, they would have arrested her at the entrance.”
“It seems feasible,” interrupted the Chief. “He thinks that Valerie got nervous and overstrung, that she detached herself too early from her chaperon, that the numerous spies who were watching got suspicious of her movements, and arrested her on the off-chance.”
Contraras nodded his head, as he added, “It might be so, and it is quite true that women lose their heads more quickly than men, when things are not running exactly in the beaten track.”
“Of course, as you may or may not know, our friend Moreno, although a very excellent fellow, is one of the vainest of men. He boasted that if you had given him the job he would have done it successfully. And I have sufficient faith in him to believe he would.”
Luçue spoke quite warmly. It was not a little to the journalist’s credit that he had succeeded in persuading this rather suspicious man both of his ability and his bona fides.
Contraras reflected for a few moments. “I have great confidence in your judgment, Luçue. You have known this man for a long time, eh?”
“For six or seven years, I should say.”
It was perfectly true. Moreno had been coquetting with Luçue and the brotherhood, and half a dozen other things, for quite a period.
“And you trust him implicitly? He is making much money?”
“A little more than he used. But he tells me he is miserably paid, that the capitalists he works for suck his brains to swell their own enormous profits.”
Contraras smiled. “He has brains, and he is poorly paid – in a word, he enriches the drones. He seems just our man, Luçue.”
“I am sure of it,” answered the other warmly.
“Good! I shall be seeing him in Madrid very shortly. We will try his mettle. He shall have the management of the next coup.”
“And that, I take it, is the removal of that busy marplot, Guy Rossett?”
“Yes,” said Contraras shortly. “But keep it to yourself and Maceda as much as possible. I won’t have too many people in the know this time.”
Luçue and Maceda promised to observe silence. The other members of the fraternity had drawn respectfully aside while the three chiefs conversed together. Jaques, otherwise Mr Jackson, arrived presently, and was informed of the conversation. He was always to be trusted. He was as great an enthusiast as Contraras himself.
“How is my little Violet getting on?” he asked.
“So far she has done good quiet work,” was the chief’s answer. “Of course, she never had the grit of poor Valerie, nor, I think, the enthusiasm.”
“Possibly, possibly,” agreed Jaques, who was very fond of his pretty protégée. “But still, if she is a bit slow, she is certainly very sure. And, although we must all make sacrifices in the great cause when we are called upon, I am glad to think she is not in the position of poor Valerie. Ah, what a fate!”
The cunning old rogue, who was making money hand over fist, sighed in real or pretended sorrow for the unhappy young Frenchwoman whose ardent sympathies had landed her in such a plight. Jaques had given plenty of money to the cause, but, like Contraras, he had never greatly risked his precious skin.
The next day Contraras returned to Madrid. He could safely leave Jaques and Luçue to look after affairs in England.
After the failure of the great coup, there had been a little re-shuffling. Somoza, the educated young fisherman, a burning and a shining light in the brotherhood, and Alvedero were stationed at Fonterrabia. Zorrilta was superintending affairs at Barcelona.
Contraras, the wealthy and magnificent, still maintained his quarters in the palatial hotel in the Plaza de Canovas. Moreno and Violet Hargrave were in Madrid also, but they had lodgings in a humbler quarter of the city.
Moreno often smiled when he thought what humbug it all was, this profession of democracy and equality. Because they were, comparatively speaking, humble members of the brotherhood, they were stowed away in poky lodgings. Contraras had a suite of rooms at the best hotel in the city, and went occasionally to Court.
“What a gigantic farce,” he thought. “As if you could alter the primeval instincts of human nature by a carefully adjusted system of labels. And, as for tyranny and oppression, if I were a Spanish citizen, I would rather live under the rule of Alfonso than that of Contraras. If the old man got into the saddle, there would be plenty of shooting. He would make short work of those who didn’t agree with him, without the formality of a trial.”
Contraras was a wary old schemer. He had many visitors at his hotel – men of light and leading in the city, the aristocratic connections of his wife. But he never allowed his anarchist subordinates to come near him. He was much too clever for that. He went to them.
On the evening of the day on which he returned to Madrid, he met Moreno and Violet Hargrave at the journalist’s modest lodgings, by appointment.
Moreno, who was always fond of indulging in humorous jokes, would have liked to apologise to the wealthy Contraras for receiving him in such humble surroundings, with some caustic allusion to the time when all men would be equal.
But he forbore. Contraras was too serious a person to indulge in humour himself, or tolerate it in others. Besides, Moreno had special reasons for ingratiating himself with his Chief, whom he privately stigmatised as a “silly old visionary,” and whose chances against the organised forces of law and order he was not prepared to back.
Contraras was very gracious to his two subordinates. Whatever his defects, he had the true note of Spanish courtesy.
He turned first to Violet Hargrave. “I have just come from London, where I met our dear friend Jaques. He inquired most tenderly after you, and sent through me his kindest remembrances.”
Violet looked very pleased. If there was a tender spot in her heart, it was for the old moneylender, who had been a father to her. She flushed a little; quite a soft light came into her eyes.
“That was very sweet of him. He really has a heart of gold, dear old Juan,” she said softly.
Moreno looked at her curiously. He had not got to the bottom of her yet. A hardened adventuress, pure and simple – that was how he had first judged her. But her kindly mention of Jaques, “an old shark of the first water,” as the young journalist classed him in his own mind, revealed something that he had not credited her with. Had she, after all, a capacity for emotion, did she possess any real womanly instincts?
Contraras next addressed himself to Moreno.
“I also met in London our comrade Luçue, the man who introduced you to the brotherhood.”
“Ah, what a great man!” cried Moreno, with the fervour of a new and enthusiastic recruit. “The only man, in my opinion, who would ever be worthy to wear your mantle, if ever it should drop from your shoulders. May that day be far distant!” he added piously.
Contraras, ever pleased with a little judicious flattery, became more amiable than ever. The glance he bent upon the young journalist was almost a benevolent one.
“Luçue speaks very highly of you, and I have always had the greatest confidence in his judgment. He tells me, and, as he did not say it in confidence, I can repeat it, you expressed your opinion that we made a mistake in allowing Valerie to undertake the great coup. You added that if you had been entrusted with it, you would have brought it off.”
The question was a supreme test of Moreno’s modesty, but he was not taken aback. He turned the situation lightly, and with his usual assurance.
“I am certain I should have done,” he said composedly.
Contraras frowned a little. He had been very fond of Valerie Delmonte; he rather resented any criticism of her.
“Why are you so sure, comrade Moreno? Valerie was very clever, very subtle. Are you more so?”
The young man looked at his chief calmly. “I daresay she was much more clever, much more subtle than I am, but she lacked my nerve.”
“Ah, there is something in that,” agreed the older man. “A woman may have the brains of a man, I agree, that is to say, an exceptional woman, but come to a crucial moment, and the brain will be dominated by the nerves. It is the penalty of the sex.”
The Chief ruminated over these remarks a few seconds before he spoke again.
“Well, Moreno, I am going to give you a chance to prove your mettle. You know the next item on our programme is the removal of Guy Rossett.” Moreno nodded. He had shot a side glance at Violet Hargrave, but she had betrayed no sign of emotion. And yet, in the flat at Mount Street, she had alluded to the project in a spirit of exultation.
“It was the first item on the programme, and was shelved in favour of the later one. What do you mean precisely by the term ‘removal’?” Contraras shrugged his shoulders. “That I have not yet quite decided upon. The first thing is to get hold of him.”
“That is quite easy,” said Moreno in his usual quiet way.
Contraras looked at him sharply. “You speak very confidently, Moreno. You appreciate the difficulties in the way? To get him either out of the Embassy or his flat will be a tough job. He is well guarded, you may depend.”
“I appreciate all the difficulties, Contraras. To get him out of the Embassy is well nigh impossible. To get him out of the flat is the easier job of the two. Well, I will undertake to bring him to any place you like.”
“Your methods?” queried Contraras, in the same sharp tone.
Moreno bowed with great courtesy to his titular Chief.
“Pardon me for declining to answer that question at present. I am a very new member of the brotherhood, I have my spurs to win, I have to justify your confidence in me, or I should rather say the confidence of Luçue, for you know next to nothing of me. I want to show you that I am a little more clever, a little more subtle than perhaps you imagine. When I deliver him to you, I will possibly explain my methods, not before.”
“You will undertake to deliver him to us?” questioned Contraras, still speaking a little doubtfully. He was, however, very much impressed by the young man’s confident manner.
“On any day, at any hour you like to name,” was the reassuring reply.
“I will settle the details later on,” said Contraras, his voice betraying a note of agitation. “Anyway, I depute you and Violet Hargrave to see that this thing is carried out.”
Moreno looked at the woman. “You will be my assistant in this?” he asked.
Her voice was very low. “Of course, if the Chief wishes it.”
Contraras spoke in his most authoritative tones. “You have no choice. You took a solemn oath to obey the orders of the Chiefs of the organisation. As your Chief, I call upon you to do this.”
Violet Hargrave bowed her head submissively. She remembered there was a terrible penalty attached to hesitation or disobedience. She also recalled the fate of Valerie Delmonte, and her face went white.
Moreno thought to himself, “Infernal old scoundrel, he doesn’t care whom he sacrifices. And in the meanwhile he is living in luxury, and getting us poor devils to run all the risk.”
Aloud he said: “And what will you do with Guy Rossett when I deliver him to you?”
Contraras reflected before he spoke. “As I told you just now, I have not quite made up my mind.” He paused, and struck an imposing attitude. “You know, Moreno, it has always been my policy to strike at the head and heart of this effete system. The humbler members, mere tools of their superiors – well, I would be inclined to show them mercy.”
“I know that has always been your generous inclination,” replied Moreno, masking his loathing of this fanatical creature. “Well, I should say Rossett was quite a tool, very poor game.”
“I am inclined to agree with you. Still, he is active and dangerous, and a menace to the Cause. He knows too much about many of us.”
“Quite true, quite true,” said Moreno. He had an object in humouring this venerable visionary. He wanted to know what was at the back of his mind, what dark scheme he was working out in his subtle brain!
Contraras spoke in a meditative voice. “These Englishmen are strange people; they have a great respect for their word.”
“It is one of their peculiarities,” admitted Moreno drily.
“If he would take a solemn oath to resign his post, and withdraw himself from any further opposition to the brotherhood, I think I would accept that, and let him go free.”
“And that, I am afraid, is just the thing you will never induce an Englishman to do,” said Moreno bluntly. “I know the type too well. Better death than dishonour, all that sort of thing, you know. It’s in their blood.”
Contraras smiled oddly. “In that case, I think there is only one course. It is regrettable, it is repugnant to me. But the safety of the brotherhood is my first consideration.”
Moreno had learned all he wanted to know. He knew now what was working in that fanatical brain.
“I understand,” he said quietly. He added with the most apparent sincerity. “The safety of the brotherhood must always be the first thought. I quite agree.”
Shortly after, Contraras left to return to his luxurious hotel. He parted from the two with many expressions of good-will. He was disposed to confirm Luçue’s high opinion of Moreno. There was a confident bearing about the young man that impressed him. He was sure that he would prove a valuable recruit to the brotherhood.
They were left alone – the man quite young, the woman still comparatively youthful.
Moreno spoke first. “We have been assigned a post of honour, but it is also a post of danger. Don’t you think so?”
Mrs Hargrave shivered. “When I remember poor Valerie Delmonte, I must confess I don’t feel very brave. But you spoke very confidently of being able to snare Rossett.”
“I am quite confident of being able to do that.”
“I suppose you won’t tell me why you are so confident of the fact?”
Moreno shook his head. “No, I certainly won’t. In this business, never let your left hand know what your right hand doeth.”
She shot at him a rather coquettish glance, which thrilled him just a little. She was certainly a very pretty and fascinating woman.
“I am to be trusted, really, you know,” she pleaded. “I can be as close as wax.”
“I will tell you some day,” he answered. He thought, as he spoke, the day might be a very long one.