Whither Thou Goest

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.

Chapter Seven

Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the lower quarters of Madrid.

One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular rôle. The danger that he ran added a spice to his enjoyment.

The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman.

That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus:

“Dear Mr Rossett, – You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy, when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like to have a brief chat with you this afternoon.”

The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable quarters of the town.

He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew’s associate, a man of whom Guy had some recollection.

The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard.

Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended working-man. Moreno waved it away.

“We will have cigarettes, if you please,” he said, in a low voice. “Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble and unprosperous working-man.”

Rossett bowed to his companion’s superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.

“Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post.”

Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted.

“Do you mind explaining a little more fully,” he said cautiously.

Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other’s caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.

“My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?” Guy nodded. “So far, you are right.”

It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett’s promotion, for certain private reasons.

“I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment.” Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming.

“I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter.”

Moreno assented blandly. “Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy.”

“What do you know, or guess?” asked Rossett angrily.

“Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for, in the double rôle I am playing, I have to be very cautious.”

“Please go on,” said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident sincerity of his companion.

“For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care.”

“Yes, I know that,” assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations. Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably well informed.

“I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very good advice?” was the Spaniard’s startling question.

Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties.

“I will tell you when you have offered it,” answered the young diplomat curtly.

A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily away, speaking in Spanish.

“One of the gang,” he whispered to Rossett. “The city is honeycombed with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English.”

He paused a moment before he spoke again.

“My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand.”

“Why should I do this?” queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. “Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave.”

For a second, Rossett’s face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near.

“Why, why?” he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background.

Moreno looked in the same direction. “You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog’s chance.”

Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. “I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst.”

“Think of the girl you love,” pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him.

A spasm of pain crossed Rossett’s face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed?

“I will stay,” he said doggedly. “And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety.”

Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. “You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal,” he said, “but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England.”

“I go back in honour, not as a fugitive,” answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant.

“If that man had known who you were,” observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, “he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on.”

And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question.

“But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?”

Moreno smiled his subtle smile. “My dear friend, I am sending weekly articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally delightful population. In short, I am ‘booming’ Spain. I am the innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday.”

Rossett smiled. “You are a very wonderful man. Au revoir.”

That night three letters were written to London. One was from Guy addressed to his sister, and it contained the important question, had his father anything to do with his appointment to Madrid; in other words, did he owe his promotion to anything except his own merits?

Mary’s reply came back in due course. It was distinctly conciliatory and diplomatic. But, as Mary was not very adapt at telling a lie, the truth peeped through. It was evident to Guy that Lord Saxham had exercised his influence to get his son to Spain, with the view of separating him from Isobel; Guy felt very bitter towards his father. He felt it was something in the nature of a dirty trick, diplomatic perhaps, but none the less of a questionable nature.

Moreno wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Mary Rossett. He had not even been introduced to that charming young woman, but such an elementary fact as that did not deter him. He explained who he was, he recalled the evening at the Savoy. He pointed out that her brother was in great danger, and that she should use all the influence of her family to get Guy recalled on some pretext or another. He added that he had met Guy in Madrid and urged this course upon him, that Guy on scenting danger, with the stubborn pride of the Englishman, had refused to abandon his post.