Whither Thou Goest

Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard, with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. The majority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen who found their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the same time, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept a wary eye upon Maceda and his friends.

It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners.

He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends.

Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda’s. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart.

The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand.

“How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well.”

For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word – it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly.

A sudden light came into the proprietor’s eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont.

“So you are with us, at last,” he said. “A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way.”

The restaurant keeper led him up a narrow staircase – the house was a very old one – to a big room on the second floor. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, on which were set bowls of flowers and dishes of fruit. Moreno looked around gratefully. As far as creature comforts went, he was going to have a pleasant evening. Maceda was evidently going to do his best.

Maceda pointed to a little side-room.

“It is there the initiation will be performed at seven. At half-past, dinner will be served. After dinner, the business of the meeting will take place. You are a bit early. I know this much, that you are here on the introduction of Emilio Luçue.”

“Quite right,” answered Moreno easily. “It was Luçue who persuaded me to the right way.”

Maceda raised his hands in admiration at the mention of that name.

“Ah, what a man, what a genius!” he cried in fervent tones. “If our cause ever triumphs, if the world-wide revolution is ever brought about – and sometimes, my friend, I feel very disheartened – it is men like Luçue who will make it a possibility.”

“Trust to Luçue,” answered Moreno, in his easy way. “If he can’t do it, nobody can.”

Maceda moved towards the door. “Excuse me that I can no longer keep you company. But business is business, you know. I must be there to welcome my patrons. Maceda’s restaurant is nothing without Maceda. You know that. My subordinates are good, and do their best, but it is my personality that keeps the thing going. If I am away for ten minutes, everything hangs fire.” Moreno waved a cheerful hand at him.

“Do not stand upon ceremony, my good old friend. I shall be quite happy here till the others arrive. No doubt I shall see you later.”

The proprietor walked to the door, with his long, slow stride.

“The three will be here at seven to initiate you. I shall run up for a few moments now and again during the dinner. The two men who will wait upon you are, of course, members of our society. I shall hope to be present, if only for a brief space, at the meeting. Once again, a thousand welcomes.”

Maceda shut the door carefully. Moreno was left alone, in the long, narrow room. He gave vent to a low whistle, when Maceda was out of earshot.

“The old boy takes it very seriously,” so ran his reflections. “I suppose they will all take it quite as seriously. Anyway, they intend to do themselves well. I wonder where the money comes from? And I further wonder if I shall meet anybody whom one would the least expect to find in such a venture.”

On the stroke of seven Luçue arrived, a fine, handsome man of imposing presence. He was accompanied by two men, one an Italian, the other a Russian. It was evidently going to be a meeting of many nations.

Luçue greeted the journalist with a friendly smile. “Ah, my friend, you are before us. That is a good sign. I hope you do not feel nervous.”

Moreno answered truthfully that he did not. The whole thing appealed greatly to his sense of humour. Here were a dozen anarchists, meeting in a small restaurant in Soho, and pluming themselves upon the idea that, from their obscure vantage-ground, they could blow up the world into fragments and overpower the forces of law and order, to bring it into accordance with their wild dreams.

The four men went into the ante-room. Here the solemn rights of initiation were performed with perfect seriousness. Afterwards, when he reflected on the subject, Moreno remembered that he had taken some very blood-curdling oaths.

His gay and easy temperament was not greatly affected by the fact. He had been in the pay of the Secret Service before; he was in its pay now. A man must take risks, if he wanted to make a good living. Besides, he loved adventure. If the apparently genial Luçue ever had cause to suspect him, then Luçue would stick a knife into his ribs without the slightest compunction. But he felt sure he was the cleverer of the two, and that Luçue would suspect every member of the fraternity before himself.

The somewhat tedious initiation over, the four men went into the dining-room. Most of the members had arrived. The two waiters were bringing up the soup.

Moreno recognised with a start the portly form of Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, the moneylender of Dover Street. Luçue had told him that the common language was French, in order to accommodate all nationalities.

Moreno addressed him. “I don’t think you remember me, Mr Jackson. I had the pleasure of introducing young Harry Mount Vernon to you some months ago, when he was wanting a little of the ready. He has always spoken in the highest terms of you.” Mr Jackson, always suave and genial, bowed and smiled. But it was evident he was searching the recesses of his memory.

Moreno helped him out of his difficulty.

“I am Andres Moreno, a Fleet Street journalist, who mixes with all sorts and conditions of men.”

“Ah, I remember now.” Jackson, to call him by his assumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. “And so, you are one of us?”

“Yes, very much so,” replied Moreno quietly.

“Our friend Luçue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful man.”

Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda.

“A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause triumphs, it will be due to him.” Another worshipper, thought Moreno, with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious, with a whole-hearted worship of their leader.

The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile.

“All here, except the two ladies,” he said. “We must wait for the ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience.”

As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman, the other as obviously an Englishwoman.

Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand.

“Always late, my dear Violet,” he said, “but better late than never.”

Then Luçue bustled up, and took the situation in hand.

“Now, Jackson, you mustn’t monopolise one of the two charming young women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish, his mother was English.”

The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the flower and fruit-laden table. Luçue, probably through inadvertence had not mentioned the woman’s name.

Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar to him.

And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English.

“Our good friend Luçue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?”

Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with suspicion.

“I think we had better talk in French, if you don’t mind – it is the rule here. It might annoy others if we didn’t. Where did you know me, and what do you know about me?”

Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease.

“I am a journalist, rather well-known in Fleet Street.”

“Yes, I know that,” answered Violet a little impatiently. “Luçue mentioned your name, and it is, as you say, a well-known one. But you have not answered my question. Where did you first know me?”

Moreno explained the little incident of the Albert Hall Bazaar.

“I see, then, you rather singled me out from the others,” said Mrs Hargrave, and this time the glance was more coquettish than suspicious. “But I am more interested in this – what do you know about me?”

Moreno put his cards on the table at once.

“We journalists pick up a lot of odd information. I know that you are an intimate friend of our friend Jackson, otherwise Juan Jaques, and one of us; and that to a certain extent you help him in his business, by introducing valuable clients.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?” Mrs Hargrave’s tone was quite friendly. She respected brains, and this dark-faced young Anglo-Spaniard was not only good-looking, but very clever. “Tell me some more.”

“Well, I know that you still live in Mount Street, that you married Jack Hargrave, who was never supposed by his friends to have any visible means of subsistence. Also that at one time, you were a great friend of Guy Rossett, the man who has just been appointed to Madrid.”

“Oh, then you know Guy Rossett?”

“No,” answered Moreno quietly. “I don’t move in such exalted circles. But I always hear of what is going on in high society, through my influential friends.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Have you many influential friends?” she asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in her pleasant, low-pitched voice.

A slight flush dyed Moreno’s swarthy cheek at what he considered her impertinent question.

“More perhaps than you would think possible,” he answered stiffly.

She read in his nettled tone that she had wounded his amour propre. She hastened to make amends. She was always a little too prone to speak without reflection.

“Oh please don’t think I meant to be rude. But we soldiers of fortune, and all of us here are that, are not likely to have many friends in high places.”

The journalist paid her back in her own coin.

“Not real friends, of course. But still, we swim about in many cross currents. You yourself have a certain position in a certain section of what we might call semi-smart society.”

Violet Hargrave laughed good-humouredly. She was liberal-minded in this respect, that she seldom resented a thrust at herself when she had been the aggressor.

“Very neatly put. I have no illusions about my actual position. I am not sure that my particular circle is even semi-smart, except in its own estimation.”

So peace was restored between them, and they chatted gaily together during the progress of the meal. She had taken a great liking to the brainy young journalist. And Moreno, on his side, was forced to admit that she was a very attractive woman.

The grave and dignified Maceda, looking more like a nobleman than the proprietor of an obscure restaurant, came up a few times, and talked in confidential whispers with the principal guests. He chatted longest with Luçue and the handsome young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who, Moreno learned afterwards, stood high in the councils and the estimation of the society.

After dinner, the waiters withdrew, the men smoked, and the two ladies produced dainty cigarette cases. Then the business of the evening began.

The genial Luçue, who looked the least ferocious of anarchists, opened the proceedings. He gave a brief but lucid survey of what was going on abroad, of the methods by which the great gospel of freedom was being spread in different capitals.

The young Frenchwoman, Valerie Delmonte, who had dined well on the most expensive viands, delivered a fiery and passionate harangue against the great ones of the earth, the parasites and bloodsuckers who existed on the toil of their poorer brethren.

Her speech roused the assembly to enthusiasm, Mr Jackson being particularly fervent in his applause. No doubt, he believed himself to be a philanthropist, insomuch as he levied his exactions on the leisured classes; thus, in a measure, redressing the balance of human wrongs.

Moreno applauded with hardly less fervour than the moneylender, and he was pleased to note that the eloquent Valerie shot a grateful glance at him. He had already gained the confidence of Luçue. He felt sure, from the reception accorded her, that she was only second to the great man himself. If he could secure her good graces, his position would be safe.

Some business, not of great importance, was discussed. Certain projects were put to the vote. On one subject, Luçue and Mademoiselle Valerie dissented from the majority. Moreno decided with the two, and the majority reversed its verdict.

Violet Hargrave was, perhaps, the least enthusiastic of the party. Truth to tell, she was studying the young journalist very intently. He interested her greatly.

The proceedings ended. A meeting was arranged for next week at the same place, when two members of the brotherhood were expected to arrive from Barcelona with the latest reports of what was happening in Spain.

After a little desultory chatting in groups, Maceda’s guests prepared to depart.

Moreno held out his hand to Mrs Hargrave. He bore the air of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed himself, as in truth he had.

“A most delightful evening. I can only hope you will sit beside me next week. But that I fear is too much to hope for. I expect our good friend Luçue arranges these things with a sense of equity.”

Mrs Hargrave smiled. “I expect next time he will put you next to Mademoiselle Delmonte.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, she added abruptly, “Are you doing anything after this?”

“I was only going on to my club for an hour or two. We journalists are not very early birds.”

Mrs Hargrave spoke with her most charming smile. “Then get me a taxi, and drive with me to my flat in Mount Street. I should like to have a little chat with you.”

Moreno was delighted to accompany her. He was eager to know more of this fascinating and enigmatical woman. He was puzzled by her. How did she live; on what did she live? Was she at heart an anarchist? Or, sudden thought, was she playing the same game as himself? He had noticed her lack of enthusiasm over the events of the evening.

Arrived in Mount Street, she produced her latchkey, and ushered him into her luxurious flat, the abode of a well-off woman. She turned into the drawing-room, and switched on the electric light.

She threw her cloak on a chair and rang the bell. When the maid appeared in answer, she ordered her to bring refreshment.

She mixed a whiskey and soda for Moreno with her own slender dainty hands. She mixed a very small portion for herself, to keep him company.

“I very rarely take anything of this sort, just a glass of very light wine at lunch or dinner,” she explained. “But to-night is a somewhat exceptional one. To your health, Mr Moreno. I hope we may meet often.”

The journalist responded in suitable terms. He was very attracted by her, but he was not quite sure that he desired a close acquaintance. He had heard from his young friend Mount Vernon of her bridge parties, and the fact that people lost large sums of money there. She was evidently of a most hospitable nature, but she might prove a very expensive hostess.

They chatted for some time on different topics. Then, after a brief space, she suddenly burst out with a question.

“What do you know of Guy Rossett?”

Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “Next to nothing. I only know what everybody knows, that he has been sent to Madrid.”

Question and answer followed swiftly.

“Do you know why he has been sent to Madrid?”

“No. I suppose it is owing to his family influence.”

“Has Luçue told you nothing?”

“Up to the present nothing.”

She looked at him keenly. Was he fencing? No, she felt sure he was speaking the truth.

“Then I will tell you. Guy Rossett is being sent to Spain because he has obtained some very important information about the brotherhood. They want him on the spot, as just now Madrid and Barcelona are two very active centres.”

Moreno leaned forward, and looked at her steadily. He could not, at present, make up his mind about her. She was an Englishwoman living in fairly luxurious conditions. What had she in common with this anarchist crew.

“Have you got any idea who gave him the information?”

Violet Hargrave returned his keen glance with equal steadiness.

“Not the slightest. But there are always traitors in any association of this kind.”

“And when they are discovered, the penalty is death.” Moreno spoke quietly, but he felt an inward shiver. After all, was he so certain he was going to outwit Luçue and his brother fanatics.

“The penalty is death. You have been initiated to-night, and you know that,” was Violet Hargrave’s answer.

The journalist felt a little uneasy. He had suspected her. Did she, in turn, suspect him? But he preserved an unbroken front.

“They deserve it,” he said, with unblushing audacity.

Mrs Hargrave bent forward, and spoke with intensity.

“Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Luçue and Mademoiselle Delmonte, from the few words I have exchanged with them to-night, have resolved on a certain course of action.”

“Ah!” The journalist also bent forward, in an attitude of simulated eagerness.

When Mrs Hargrave spoke again, she looked a different woman. Over her face came a hard, vindictive look. The dainty, almost doll-like prettiness had disappeared.

“Guy Rossett must be got out of the way, before he can do much mischief.”

And Moreno, with his swift intuition, at once grasped the situation. This slender, feminine thing, with her soft ways and graces, was a revengeful and scorned woman. She had loved Rossett, and he had refused to accept her love. He shuddered in his soul to think that the spirit of revenge could carry a woman to such lengths.

But he had only to play his part. It would never do to let her know that he suspected, or the tigress’s claws would rend himself.

“A regrettable but inexorable necessity,” he said calmly. “If Rossett menaces the schemes of the brotherhood, he must be got out of the way.”

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!