“Death,” whispered Violet in a hollow voice, and her face went as pale as death itself.
“And you can guess what Rossett’s answer will be?” said Moreno, breaking the long silence that ensued between them after those significant words.
“I know, I know. He will choose death unless you can save him.” The woman in her came suddenly to the surface, and she broke down, sobbing bitterly.
Moreno looked at her steadily, but not unkindly, for a long time. Her emotion was genuine enough, he was sure. When the dastardly project had only been in the air, so to speak, she had not realised the full horror of it. Now that it was so near to accomplishment, she was stricken with remorse for having harboured such revengeful thoughts.
And presently he spoke again, in his quiet, deliberate accents.
“By a miracle, it may be possible for me to save him, if I can outwit them.”
“But cannot I help you? I know you do not believe much in the capacity of women, but I am not a fool, and in a crisis I believe my nerves are steady.”
“If it is fated for me to succeed, I shall work better alone. But I would like to ask you this. It will be a cruel ordeal for you to be present at this scene, especially at the moment when you will be called upon to record your vote as a member of the tribunal. Would you be grateful to me if I could save you from that ordeal?”
“Very, very grateful,” sobbed the now sorely stricken woman. “But it is impossible. I have seen Contraras to-day also. He has arranged for Alvedero to fetch me to-morrow evening, and to conduct me to that awful house where we are to receive Guy Rossett. It is impossible.”
“There are very few things in this world that are impossible,” said Moreno, a little impatiently. “The first idea I had was that you would frankly throw yourself on the compassion of Contraras, tell him that this man was once your lover, and that you must be excused from taking part in the proceedings on the ground of common humanity. The question is, would that work? It might, because I know he is still remorseful about the fate of Valerie Delmonte. But we are not sure. He is a fanatic of the deepest dye.”
“Absolutely a fanatic,” corroborated Mrs Hargrave. “To him the welfare of the brotherhood is the one supreme thing. All human emotions must be subjugated, all consideration of friends and kindred swept aside, in pursuance of the one object.”
“I am disposed to agree,” said Moreno. “Contraras’ sense of compassion is a doubtful factor. We will discard that idea. Will you put yourself in my hands?”
She looked intently into the dark, brilliant eyes, and what she read there reassured her. He was stubbornly secretive, but he was kind and sympathetic. He was ready to do his best to serve her.
“Yes, I will,” she said bravely. “I trust you.”
“Good! Then that is settled. Alvedero will call for you to-morrow evening as arranged, but you will not accompany him. He will come alone.”
“How are you going to do it?” she cried breathlessly. Her admiration for the man had grown intensely during the last few days. He seemed able to work miracles.
“I shall keep that a secret too till to-morrow morning, when I shall be round at eleven o’clock. If I told you now, you would not get a wink of sleep all night.”
“I shall not get a wink of sleep as it is,” she answered.
But, secretive to the last, Moreno was not to be tempted into frankness. “Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, you have promised to leave yourself in my hands. To-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock.”
They shook hands without another word. Moreno walked back to his lodgings reflecting deeply.
Was this attractive young woman really as bad as he had once thought? Was she not rather a creature of strong passions, of impulses at times ungovernable? Were there not in her womanly feelings that could be cherished and fostered by sympathetic companionship?
Anyway, if she followed his instructions, as she had agreed to do, he had secured her safety as well as his own. And that would be a result that would gratify him exceedingly.
Chapter Twenty One
Save for a little impatience when his judgment was impugned, or somebody questioned the soundness of his opinions, Moreno was a person of the most equable temperament, and singularly light hearted.
Still, when he rose early on the morning of this most eventful day, he was in a very grave and thoughtful mood. He was playing a most difficult and dangerous game. Even if he outwitted the Heads of the brotherhood in Spain, as he believed he had, there were left Luçue and Jaques in London to deal with.
To save Guy Rossett was easy enough; he had laid his plans very surely for that. But he had to save himself; also to save Violet Hargrave. In the plausible explanations that he would have to give in London, there must be no loopholes.
Very early in the morning he again saw the Chief of Police, in company with Farquhar, who, now that the game was really afoot, was manifesting a keen interest in the chase. They rehearsed the whole programme all over again.
“He is cleverer than I thought him at first,” whispered Moreno to his friend, when the somewhat stout man had withdrawn for a moment to consult one of his lieutenants. “But I am relying on you to be constantly at his elbow. You are not the sort of chap to get flurried.”
And Farquhar, although quite a modest kind of fellow, agreed that he could keep his head in a crisis.
At eleven o’clock, as arranged, Moreno presented himself at the lodgings of Mrs Hargrave. She looked very pale and there were dark rings round her eyes. It was easy to see that her night had been a perturbed one, that she had enjoyed little or no sleep.
“You don’t look in the best of health and spirits,” he said kindly. “Well, you have got to pluck up your courage. You will want plenty of it for the next twenty-four hours.”
She shivered. “If I had known what I was going in for, I would never have yielded to Jaques’ entreaties,” she said.
“You never quite know what you will be landed in when you embark in these enterprises,” answered the young man lightly. “Well, now to business. You still want to be absent from that meeting to-night?”
“If it is possible.”
“It is quite possible, but you will have to rely on me, and you will also have to be very brave.”
He drew out of his pocket a small, dark-coloured phial, and held it to the light.
“You see that?” he asked. “Well, this is going to be your salvation.”
She shivered again; her nerves were very much out of order this morning, but she began to have an idea of what he was driving at.
“This is the secret, then, that you would not tell me last night. I have got to drink that.”
Moreno nodded. “Yes, if you are still in the same mind as you were yesterday. In my very early youth I was apprenticed to a chemist. I very soon began to acquire a wide knowledge of drugs, and their properties.”
They had been standing up to the present. Moreno pointed to a sofa.
“We can talk more easily if we sit. I have mixed you here a perfectly safe compound, which I want you to drink before I leave, so that I can take away the bottle; I would prefer it was not left lying about, you understand.”
She looked at him with eyes that expressed a great dread. “What effect will it have?”
“I tell you frankly, about six or seven o’clock you will feel very ill, very faint. Those effects will last for the best part of twelve hours. A few hours after that, you will be yourself again.”
She looked at him narrowly. A dark wave of suspicion had suddenly flowed over her mind. She was sure, with a woman’s certain intuition, that he was greatly attracted by her. Still, she knew nothing of him.
He had always said he was a true son of the Revolution, although she had somewhat distrusted the sincerity of that statement. Had he, out of loyalty to the Cause, revealed her perfidy to the others, and was he deputed by them to poison her, under the specious pretext of falling in with her wishes?
He read her dark, suspicious thoughts as easily as he would have read an open book. He spoke very gently, very tenderly. She had never appealed to him more than at this moment, with her pallid cheeks, the haunting dread in her eyes.
“My dear, you do not trust me, I can see. Your mind is full of doubt. Well,” – he stooped and kissed her – “I can only swear by everything I hold holy and sacred that I would not harm a hair of your head.”
No man could lie so convincingly as that. She reached out her hand for the phial, then quickly drew it back.
“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” she murmured in a low voice. “I don’t know which to choose – to do as you tell me, or to go to that dreadful place.”
“You must do as you please.” He was still very patient, but she noticed there was certain coldness in his tones.
She rose and walked about the room, wringing her hands. Her faith in him had come back, but she was still terribly afraid.
“It is early yet,” said Moreno presently. “You have plenty of time to send round for Contraras and throw yourself on his compassion. Implore him not to compel you to assist at the condemnation, perhaps the execution, of a man who was once your lover. He might give way.”
“The last thing he would do. He would think it a grand opportunity to show my fidelity to the Cause. He would let nothing stand in the way if it were his own case.”
“I agree with you now, as I agreed before when we discussed the same subject. Well, you must make up your mind. Take this, or wait here and come with Alvedero to-night.”
She was still wavering, torn between faith and doubt. “But you said you could save Guy Rossett? Is there any doubt of that?”
And Moreno, out of his pity for the woman, out of the attraction she possessed for him, spoke more plainly than he had intended.
“There is great doubt of it. But even if I could save Guy Rossett, I doubt if I could save you. I might just manage to save myself.”
And then, in a flash, she understood, and she doubted him no longer.
“I think I see it all now. You are no more a true son of the Cause than I am a true daughter. I sold their secrets for money. You would betray them for the same or other reasons.”
Moreno did not answer the question directly. He simply held out the phial towards her. “Will you drink this or not?”
She took it from him with a hand that no longer trembled. “Yes. I believe you now. I will drink it. Tell me what I am to do, how I am to act when it begins to take effect!”
“Do nothing; just go to the sofa and lie down. In a few minutes you will be in a stupor, unconscious of everything and everybody. Your landlady may come up; she can act as she pleases; send for a doctor or not. Probably nobody will come near you till Alvedero arrives. When he sees you there he can act as he pleases too. Anyway, he cannot stay long, because he will be due at the brotherhood, to whom he will bring the report of your sudden indisposition.”
“And if the doctor comes, will he not guess?”
“Dios!” cried Moreno, relapsing for a moment into Spanish. “You will be all right again long before the doctor has picked out your complaint from a dozen others that present similar symptoms.” She pulled the cork from the phial, and sniffed the contents. “There is no odour about it,” she said.
“Not the slightest,” said Moreno quietly. “I took very good care of that. I think if the doctor does come, he will be a bit puzzled.”
She drank it down at a draught, then handed the bottle back to her visitor.
“I am an adventuress, and you are – well – a sort of adventurer,” she said, with a half smile. “Well, you see, I have given you a proof of my faith in you.”
Moreno put the phial into his pocket, and held out his hand.
“Good-bye, for the present.”
“Shall I see you to-morrow?” asked Violet, as she walked with him to the door. “You say after about twelve hours I shall be myself again.”
“Certainly,” answered Moreno in his gayest tones. Yes, whatever betided, he would certainly see her to-morrow. Her trust in him had made her more attractive than ever.
On the whole, he thought he had done the best for her. Once he had thought of getting the Spanish police to arrest her on some false charge, with the view of letting her go as soon as all danger was past. But this method did not appeal to him very greatly. The police would be glad enough to get her into their clutches, but they might not care to let her go so easily. Too much explanation might be necessary, in the first instance.
And he always had to adapt his policy to the view of what questions might be asked in London. The tale she could tell now would be a very simple one. She had been attacked in the evening by a sudden seizure, had relapsed into unconsciousness, and been oblivious of everything till the next day.
That evening, at a few minutes past nine, Alvedero knocked at the door of the mean house. When the landlady opened it, he perceived that she was in a great state of agitation.
“Oh, señor, something terrible has happened. I went up to madame’s room some twenty minutes ago to take her her light supper. She was lying unconscious on the sofa, and she has not stirred since.”
Alvedero bounded up the stairs, entered the room, and gazed on the motionless form. At first he thought she was dead, but, on placing his hand on her heart, he could feel it beating.
“She looks as if she were dying. Have you sent for a doctor?”
“Yes. After I found that I could not pull her round, I sent my husband to fetch the first one he could find.”
Alvedero reflected as to his course of action. Humanity suggested that he should stay by the side of the insensible woman till the doctor arrived and gave his opinion as to her condition. But humanity was not a particular trait of the brotherhood, and Alvedero had less of it than most of his colleagues. He had arrived five minutes late, he had spent another five minutes here. If he left at once, he would still be keeping his colleagues waiting.
Besides, what good could he do? If the woman were not dying, as he believed she was, it must be hours before she recovered. The tribunal must sit without her. The sooner he went and informed them of that fact, the better.
He turned towards the door, and spoke a few parting words to the landlady.
“Don’t leave her till the doctor comes. Obey whatever instructions he gives promptly. I will see that you are rewarded for your trouble. I will look in again, in two or three hours from now. Please sit up for me.”
He walked a few yards down the street, where a cab was waiting. He entered it, and was driven rapidly towards an obscure portion of the town.
Half an hour later, Isobel was sitting in the drawing-room alone. Her host and hostess had gone on a visit to some friends who lived near. Guy had not been able to see her during the day, as he had been too busily engaged with his official duties. He had sent round a note telling her he would be round in the evening. She was expecting him every minute.
There was a tap at the door. The maid entered with a letter. The gentleman who had brought it was waiting in the hall for an answer.
She recognised the handwriting on the envelope at once as that of her cousin Maurice Farquhar. She tore it open and read the few pencilled words: “I want to see you at once. It is about Mr Rossett.” She rushed out into the hall, and almost pulled him into the room.
“What is it?” she panted in terrified tones. “Something has happened to Guy.”
“Yes, something has happened, but you must be brave and not give way. He has been trapped by the anarchists, but all will be well. Moreno assures me that he has foreseen this, and will save him. I am now on my way to do my share in the rescue.”
“Can I come with you?” pleaded Isobel. “I shall go mad if I stop here.”
For a moment Farquhar hesitated. He had a rooted dislike to women mixing themselves up in dangerous or turbulent scenes. But her pleading eyes overcame his scruples.
“Yes, if you wish. I have a cab waiting. Leave a note for these people here explaining your absence. Then put on your things and come with me. I will explain everything as we go along.”
A few minutes later they were seated side by side, driving to the same obscure quarter of the town which had long ago been reached by the Spanish anarchist Alvedero.
Chapter Twenty Two
In a shabby room of a shabby house in one of the most obscure quarters of Madrid, five men were sitting. They were Contraras, Zorrilta, Alvedero, Moreno, and Somoza, the fisherman of Fonterrabia.
“Guy Rossett is here, in the next room.” It was Moreno who spoke. He turned to the fisherman. “Has he recovered sufficiently, Somoza?”
The fisherman answered: “He was still a little bit dazed a minute ago when I left him. The handkerchief I flung over his face contained a pretty strong dose. I should give him another ten minutes before he is ready to face the tribunal.”
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.”