Whither Thou Goest

The capture had been easy. Guy Rossett, reckless of danger, had left his flat to pay his visit to Isobel Clandon. Two members of the Secret Police were ready to accompany him. Fearful of compromising Isobel, he had rather roughly dispensed with their services. Reluctantly, they had obeyed him. They agreed between themselves that an Englishman was always pig-headed, a bit of a dare-devil, and inclined to take risks.

Guy walked carelessly along. He was in rather good spirits. He had received that day a cheerful note from Moreno that everything was going well, that very soon the heads of the anarchist movement in Spain would be laid by the heels.

Of course, in this letter, Moreno did not explain his methods. If he had done so, Guy might not have been in quite such high spirits.

For at this moment, playing his very difficult game of saving Guy Rossett, saving himself and Violet Hargrave, and also snaring the anarchists, Moreno could only give his full confidence to one man, his old friend and companion, Maurice Farquhar.

As a matter of fact, Rossett never knew what had really taken place that night. He was never told that Moreno knew of his projected visit to Isobel that evening, from a random remark of hers dropped in the afternoon – that he had set Somoza and another tall Biscayan fisherman to follow him, for the purpose of bringing him to the house where the heads of the anarchist movement were assembled in solemn conclave.

Rossett walked gaily along. He would have a precious hour with Isobel. In a dark street two men came up behind him. One pinioned his arms from behind. Somoza pressed a saturated handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds the unfortunate young diplomatist was drugged and helpless.

A cab, driven by a member of the brotherhood, had crawled slowly after the two men. As soon as the driver saw what had happened, he drove rapidly up. The two powerful men lifted the inert body into the vehicle. He was partially recovered when they halted at the house where the tribunal of five was sitting to pronounce judgment on the man who had dared to thwart their plans.

They locked him in a room adjoining that in which Contraras was presiding over the deliberations of his five trusted lieutenants. After locking him in securely, Somoza went to report the matter to Moreno. His colleague, the other Biscayan fisherman, remained on guard outside the closed door, for fear of untoward accidents. Rossett was a powerful man.

Contraras, with his fine intellectual face, his hair in places turning from iron-grey to white, looked the embodiment of dignified justice. Perhaps, in his warped and fanatical mind, he believed he was.

He spoke in his most judicial accents. “Nobody shall ever say that he has not had a fair trial, when brought up before the tribunal of the brotherhood. We will wait an hour, if it is necessary, for this misguided young man to recover his senses.” Moreno, who had arrived the last of the party, looked round with a sudden start. “Where is our comrade, Violet Hargrave?”

Contraras hastened to explain. “Ah! of course you have not heard. Alvedero went to bring her here, according to arrangement. He found her stretched on the sofa, motionless and inanimate. He thinks she is in a dying condition. He is going round to inquire after these proceedings are over.”

“This is very sad,” said Moreno, in his gravest manner. “And she is such a nice woman personally, and so devoted to the Cause, through the influence of Jaques. I wonder,” – he cast an inquiring look at Alvedero – “if, by any chance, she drinks or drugs. Many apparently nice women do!” Alvedero shook his big head. “I doubt it. I should say a seizure of some sort. Perhaps her heart is weak. She looks a little fragile.”

Moreno, for obvious reasons, did not pursue the subject. Violet Hargrave’s absence had evidently excited no comment, no suspicion.

A quarter of an hour had elapsed. Somoza was deputed to enter the locked room and ascertain the condition of the prisoner. Contraras was resolved to proceed justly, according to his interpretation of the word justice.

Somoza returned after his inspection, and reported that the effects of the saturated handkerchief had worn off. Guy Rossett was in a sense clothed in his right mind. He was fit to face the tribunal.

The members of the conclave assumed masks. Somoza had worn a mask when he had entered the locked room. Whatever happened, it was essential that Guy Rossett should not be able to identify any one of them.

The prisoner, or captive, whatever he might be called, was brought in. In the cab he had been bound securely round the legs and wrists, but not painfully. He was assisted to a chair by the masked Somoza, where he sat facing his judges.

His face was a little pale, due to the effects of the chloroform, but his demeanour was firm. He felt himself in a very tight corner, but he had been assured so often by Moreno that he need never despair. A good angel, in the shape of Moreno himself, was watching over him.

He cast his glance rapidly over the masked men confronting him. Where was the black-browed young journalist whom he had known in old days?

Yes, there on the right, nearest to the door. Had that position been chosen by accident or design? He recognised at once the short, squat figure. Through the holes of the mask, he could see the gleam of those dark eyes. His demeanour would be more indomitable than ever.

Contraras opened the proceedings in his most judicial manner.

“Mr Rossett, you will recognise that you are now at the mercy of the brotherhood, against whom for some time you have directed your activities.”

“Quite true,” replied Guy Rossett in his curtest manner. Whatever fate was in store for him, he was not going to knuckle under to this crew of bloodthirsty ruffians.

Contraras continued in his calm, imperturbable manner.

“I cannot say that, up to the present, you have done us very much harm, but still you are a menace to our schemes, our aspirations.”

“I am pleased to hear that I am of sufficient importance to justify this mock tribunal.” Rossett waved his hand contemptuously at the masked men sitting in judgment on him.

The eyes of Contraras flashed through his mask. He took his position very seriously.

“Mr Rossett, let me advise you, in your own interests, not to carry matters with too high a hand. Kindly recognise your position. If you were seated in the Calle Fernando el Santo, I admit you would be top dog. At the present moment the brotherhood, here in this obscure house, in this obscure quarter of the city of Madrid, is in that enviable situation.”

A bitter retort was on Rossett’s lips, but he thought he perceived an almost imperceptible gesture of warning from the short, squat figure in the corner near the door. He temporised.

“The fortunes of war, I admit, are with you, sir. I am sorry I have not the advantage of knowing whom I have the honour to address.”

Contraras was, at heart, a gentleman. He felt the sting of the rebuke.

“Mr Rossett, if you come into line with us to-night, I may deal with you quite frankly. Before we separate, you may know as much about me as I do about you.”

There was an obvious movement on the part of Zorrilta and Alvedero. They evidently thought their chief was going too far.

Contraras hushed the incipient rebellion with an authoritative wave of his hand.

“Gentlemen, kindly leave me to deal with this matter. Mr Rossett and I will understand each other in a very few moments.”

He turned towards the young diplomatist, still undaunted in the midst of this hostile crowd.

“Mr Rossett, you have much to lose by opposing us – perhaps life itself. By withdrawing from this unequal contest – and, believe me, it is unequal – you have much to gain.”

“I am not so sure it is unequal,” answered Guy Rossett stubbornly. He had perceived too late the warning signal of Moreno, anxious that the somewhat uncertain Contraras should not be deflected from his present calm, judicial mood.

But Contraras kept his temper. “Mr Rossett, you are a young man, with life, a happy and prosperous life, before you. I know a great deal about you; it is my business to know much about other people. You are engaged to a very charming girl, you will inherit a great fortune from a wealthy aunt.”

“And, if you could establish your principles,” broke in Guy, speaking with some heat, “you might take away from me my fiancée – you would certainly rob me of my fortune.”

But Contraras was still patient. He was trying to reason with this obstinate young man, whose bold bearing moved his admiration.

“We cannot tell how the great Revolution will shape itself ultimately. But let us deal with present facts. A charming girl is waiting for you, longing for the moment when she can be your wife.”

A shadow of pain passed over Guy’s face. To-night, he had set out to visit his beloved Isobel, and he had been snared.

Contraras watched him narrowly through the holes of his mask.

“And a big fortune will be yours very shortly. Are you prepared to give up these advantages for the sake of thwarting the brotherhood?”

“I rather think I am. But tell me what you propose. I admit you are arguing in a most temperate fashion. But you have something up your sleeve all the time.”

“I have,” admitted Contraras frankly. “Mr Rossett, believe me, I have no personal animosity against you, except as the tool of a decaying and effete system. Come into line with me, and your bonds shall be loosed, and you shall go forth a free man.”

“Your conditions?” queried Rossett, in a hard voice.

“Take your solemn oath, no, give me your word as an English gentleman – I will accept that – that you will resign your position at the Embassy, and take no further action against the brotherhood.”

He rose, and pointed at the door. “Give me that promise, Mr Rossett, and you can walk out a free man.”

If Guy hesitated a moment, his hesitation must be pardoned. In that swift instant he thought of Isobel, anxiously waiting his arrival, his dear sister Mary, anxious and troubled also, even his father, whose maladroit interference in his affairs had sent him into this hotbed of disaffection.

Then he spoke slowly and deliberately. “You invite me to dishonour myself, in order to secure my own personal safety. My answer is, No. Do your worst.”

“You will not reconsider that decision, Mr Rossett?”

Guy shook his head. “No, a thousand times, no. Do what you like with me. I am a defenceless man. You can murder me here, and probably hush up your crime. But I shall be avenged – you can reckon on that.”

Contraras rose, and paced the room in great agitation. He was a brave man himself; he admired the quality of bravery in others. Fanatical and resolute as he was, it went against the grain to condemn this young Englishman to death, because he would not accept the dishonourable terms offered to him.

“Mr Rossett, I wish to spare you. The brotherhood does not condemn in haste.” He turned to Somoza. “Take this gentleman to his room, and bring him here in a quarter of an hour. Perhaps, by that time, he will take a more reasonable view of his position.”

“Come, señor, if you please,” said the obedient Somoza, speaking through his mask in the most polite accents. A Spaniard is always courteous, even if he is about to murder you.

The fisherman bent down to assist his prisoner to rise, but before Rossett was firmly on his legs, the short, squat figure of Moreno got up from his chair. He laid his finger to his lips and looked round at the assembly.

“Silence, gentlemen, for a moment! I am sure I heard the sound of a whistle. Yes, there is another one. Did you catch it?”

No, nobody had caught it, except Moreno. He stole gently to the window, and pulled the blind an inch aside. He dropped it hastily, and staggered back in a state of extreme agitation. In that apparently unconscious movement he had drawn nearer to the door.

“Dios!” he cried, in a shrill voice. “The house is surrounded. There are dozens of men outside.”

The pulling aside of the blind was a signal he had arranged with his friend, the head of the Police. The pretence of the whistle was a blind.

There was a heavy trampling on the stairs. Almost before he had ceased speaking, the locked door was burst open to admit the members of the police, with levelled revolvers covering the masked men.

Two of the unwelcome visitors seized Somoza and handcuffed him. A third cut the secure but not painful ropes that bound Rossett, and conducted him down the narrow staircase.

A cab was waiting; his guardian bundled the young man in.

Was it a dream? Isobel’s soft arms were round him, Isobel’s soft voice was whispering to him.

“My darling, you are safe. Moreno has kept his promise.”

Rossett was bewildered. No wonder! He had hardly yet recovered from the effects of the drug which had been administered by Somoza. His head fell back on her shoulder.

“Isobel, my dear sweetheart! You here! What does it mean?”

“It means that you are saved through Moreno, and my cousin Maurice Farquhar.” She felt it was no time to palter with the truth.

“Your cousin, Maurice Farquhar! What has he to do with it all?”

She was pleased to note that there was no suspicion in his tones, only the expression of bewilderment.

“Oh, it would take hours to explain, but I will cut it as short as I can. My cousin and Moreno are great friends. Maurice has come over here to help him. I was expecting you to-night, as you will remember. Maurice came round to explain that you had been kidnapped. He was coming on here, as Moreno’s lieutenant, to help the police. I implored him to take me along, to welcome you when you escaped from them. He consented, and here I am.”

Guy clasped her in his arms. “You darling! And where is Mr Farquhar? I would like to thank him.”

Isobel beckoned to a man standing a little way in the shadow. He advanced.

“Maurice, Guy wishes to thank you for all your share in this night’s work.”

The two men exchanged a cordial handshake. Guy muttered his thanks.

“I would like to tell you to drive off straight away,” said Farquhar. “But you must wait a minute or two. There will be a third occupant of this vehicle – our friend Moreno, who is going to pass the night at the house of the Chief of Police. To-morrow he will go to England.”

In the room from which Rossett had been conducted to his friendly guardian, the head of the police was taking the situation in hand.

“Masks off, if you please, gentlemen,” he cried out in stentorian tones.

The men turned hesitatingly to each other. But the levelled revolvers had an eloquence that was very appealing. They tore off their masks and flung them on the floor.

The chief scrutinised them in turn, offering audible comments.

“Ah, Contraras, the dark horse of the conspiracy, connected with the Spanish nobility through your wife. I think I have met you at the Court. Alvedero – ah, for some time you have been suspect. Zorrilta, I know you well. Governor of the Province of Navarre.”

He pointed to Somoza. “This gentleman I do not know. We shall find something about him later on.”

He turned to Moreno, who preserved an impassive demeanour.

“I have not the honour of knowing this gentleman, either,” he said with a splendid disregard of the truth, for which Moreno admired him immensely. “But no doubt I shall shortly atone for my ignorance. I shall have something to say to him later on.”

He turned to his subordinates. “Handcuff them and take them along.”

Moreno all the time had been edging nearer to the door. Suddenly he pulled out a knife, and hurled himself at the man who was guarding it. The man went down before the apparently savage onslaught. Moreno rushed down the stairs.

“After him,” yelled the Chief. “Don’t let that man escape.”

Three of the waiting men clattered down the stairs after the flying Moreno. They returned a few moments later, crestfallen. They explained that he had flown like the wind, that they had lost him in the darkness.

The Chief swore roundly, and cursed them. “Dolts, idiots!” he cried fiercely. “You have let him slip through your fingers. I believe he is the most dangerous man of the lot.”

He was certainly playing his part splendidly. It had, of course, all been rehearsed. The man on whom Moreno had sprung had fallen down of his own accord. The men who had been dispatched to pursue him had lost him on purpose.

Farquhar met him at the door of the shabby house and piloted him to the cab in which Guy Rossett and Isobel were seated.

“Here is the third passenger,” he said. Moreno got in and looked triumphantly at the two. “Well, what do you think of the English Secret Service?” he cried in exultant tones. “Mr Rossett is saved, I have escaped without suspicion, and my good friend the Chief of Police will make a splendid haul upstairs. He played up splendidly. Well, I think, after to-night the anarchist movement will have a big set-back in Spain.”

The cab drove along. Isobel was deposited at the Godwins’. Rossett was put down at his own flat. Moreno was conveyed to the residence of the Chief of Police, where he was to pass the night.

A telegram was awaiting Guy. It was from his sister Mary.

“I was summoned to Aunt Henrietta this morning. She had passed away before I arrived.”