good wine and food.There might come a time when, through Contraras' brains, he would be ina similar position. The two men adjourned to the private sitting-room,where the great man produced some special brandy and choice cigars.
"Drink, my friend," said the host genially. "We shall think none theless wisely because we take an excellent glass of brandy and smoke anequally excellent cigar."
Lucue assented, but after a brief pause he spoke a little bluntly.
"You will not think I am taking a liberty, my good comrade, if I say afew words to you. We have a difficult team to drive. Many of ourbrotherhood, most, alas, are very poor. Exception is taken by some ofthem to your mode of living. They think the great Contraras shouldbring himself more on a level with his less fortunate brethren."
Contraras frowned. By nature he was more autocratic than the mostdespotic monarch who even subjugated a docile people. But he recognisedthat Lucue's words conveyed a warning.
"What would they have? My wife has said the same thing to me, and atthe time I fancied it was the foolish babbling of a woman. Now I seethat there was some wisdom in her remarks."
"Equality is our watchword," observed Lucue with a rather subtle smile.
"Of course," agreed Contraras smoothly. "That is our aim, our goal.But, under present conditions, we cannot practise it. I have, as youknow, given the greater portion of my money to the cause. I have provedmy sincerity. You will say I have left some for myself. True, but thatis a wise policy. I live here in a certain sort of comfort. Theposition I keep up helps me to remain unsuspected. Nobody will think Iam such a fool as to embrace anarchy. With these trappings, I can workbetter for the cause than if I hid myself in a back street in Soho."
Lucue agreed. The chief had a long head. Lucue might envy, but hecould not refrain from admiring him.
Contraras broke away from the embarrassing topic of inequality infortune. He spoke brusquely.
"To return to this Englishman, Rossett. You think you can settle hishash?"
Lucue nodded his big head. "It is settled, as I told you. I am workingin conjunction with Alvedero and Zorrilta."
"No two better men, they are staunch to the core, true sons of Spain,"said Contraras approvingly. "One thing I would love to know, Lucue.Who supplied Rossett with his information?"
"That I am also keen to know. There are always traitors in every camp.Perhaps some day I may find out."
The two men talked till it was time for Lucue to catch his train.Contraras walked with him to the station.
The chief wrung him by the hand. "If you ever find that traitor, nohalf measures, you understand."
Lucue smiled a grim smile. "You can never accuse me of sentimentality.The penalty for every traitor is death."
CHAPTER NINE.
It had been a very hot August day. The old-world town of Fonterrabiahad glowed in the torrid heat. With the sinking of the sun had come asudden breath of comparative coolness.
In a small room facing the sea, in the obscure little cafe "The Concho"there sat four people. They were respectively, Zorrilta, JaimeAlvedero, two of the most trusted lieutenants of the great Contraras--Contraras who directed his world-wide campaign from the safe andsheltered precincts of Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead--Andres Moreno,journalist, trusted agent of the English Secret Service, ostensiblysworn anarchist, and lastly Violet Hargrave, now domiciled in Spain inthe interests of the brotherhood, in England a somewhat well-knownmember of the semi-smart set.
Moreno, as we know, was the son of a purely Spanish father and anEnglish mother. Violet Hargrave was not greatly given to confidences.But the pair had been thrown much together. In spite of their mixednationality, Spain was, to a great extent, a foreign land to them.
Violet had been born in Spain and lived there up to the age of ten, buther memories of the country were faint and fragmentary. Moreno had beenborn in England, brought up and educated there. He spoke Spanishperfectly since his father had taught him the language, and conversed init with him from childhood. In that father's company he had made somedozen trips to what was really his native country, he had visited everyimportant town--Barcelona, Toledo, Seville, Granada, Segovia, not tomention Madrid.
Still, they were both more English than foreign, and there was anunconscious sympathy between them arising from this fact. Moreno'sheart ached for the familiar haunts of Fleet Street, for the restaurantswhere the odour of garlic was not always greatly in evidence. AndViolet sighed for the elegant flat in Mount Street, with its perfectappointments. She had grown to loathe this sun-baked Biscayan coast.
Being thrown so much in each other's society, caution had been a littlerelaxed on the woman's side--Moreno had never for a moment relaxed his.Violet Hargrave was still an enigma to him. He was not prepared totrust her in the smallest degree. But in his peculiar position he couldtrust nobody.
One day she had been very confidential. It had been after a gooddinner, followed by one or two potent liqueurs. On such an occasioneven the most cautious woman of the world may find her tongue loosened.
She had confided to Moreno a considerable portion of her family history.Her father, a ne'er-do-well, a soldier of fortune--she frankly gavethis description of her male parent--had fallen in love with and marriedher Spanish mother, a beautiful young girl, a professional dancer, not,however, occupying a _Very_ high position in her profession.
It peeped through the narrative, told in a rather staccato fashion, thather father had lived chiefly on his wife's small earnings, that he didno regular work, but acted as her agent. When she was ten years of age,her mother died, and her father was thrown on his own resources.
They had come to London. James Wheeler, such was her father's name, hadat once sought out a rich financier known in business circles as MrJackson. His real name was Juan Jaques, he was a Spaniard, and he hadat one time been desperately in love with her mother.
For the sake of that old affection, he had befriended the derelictfather and the helpless child. He had set Wheeler on his legs, so faras it was possible to help such a weak and incapable creature. ButWheeler was addicted to drink and was cursed with a feeble constitution.In a few years, the drink carried him off. Violet, at the age ofeighteen, was left alone in the world. Her mother, no doubt, hadrelatives in Spain, but she knew nothing of them. Of her father'srelations, if he had any, she had never heard him speak.
Whatever the failings of the moneylender in certain directions, hebehaved with rare generosity and tenderness to the daughter of his oldsweetheart. He advanced money to secure her a good education. He didhis best to secure for her eligible posts.
Still, on the whole, she had experienced a rough time. She could do alittle of everything fairly, but nothing very well. She had tried theconcert hall, the stage, and been a failure on both. She had not eveninherited her mother's talent for dancing.
But poor old Jaques was always patient and kind. He kept her going withan allowance that might be called handsome. At the back of his mind hefelt pretty sure that Violet would prove a winner in the end.
She had been very seedy. Jaques had summoned her to his private room,thrust a hundred pounds worth of notes into her hand, and ordered her totake herself off to the most expensive hotel in Scarborough, to pick uphealth and strength. They would map out together some fresh plan ofcampaign when she came back.
At the expensive hotel in Scarborough, she met Jack Hargrave, apersonable young fellow, who seemed to have plenty of money, and was ofgood family.
At that time Violet was a very thrifty young woman--she learnedexpensive habits later on--she reckoned that she would stay atScarborough for a fortnight, and return with a handsome balance out ofthe hundred pounds. Then the kind Jaques, to whom she was genuinelygrateful, would not have to put his hand in his pocket for some littletime.
She met Jack Hargrave, who was staying at the same hotel. He fellviolently in love with her, with her blonde prettiness. At the end ofthe first week he proposed.
Violet was
attracted by him, perhaps a little bit in love. She acceptedhim on the spot, and went off the next morning to London to consultJaques, in whom she placed her full confidence.
There was here a little break in the story, as told to Moreno.Evidently her guardian approved. She married Jack Hargrave, and theyhad taken the flat in Mount Street, of which she was still the tenant.
Here Moreno had interrupted. "You say that Jack Hargrave was well-off.How did he make his money? Flats in Mount Street are not run oncredit."
"Oh, don't you know? It was Jaques who put him into good things in theCity, out of friendship for me."
"But, one moment," pursued Moreno. "He was well-off when he met you.How was he making money when our good old friend Jaques had not appearedon the scene?"
Violet, under the influence of the liqueurs, was a little off her guard.
"Oh, don't be