“It is immaterial. We know that he loved you. Now it is perilous for an anarchist to love.”
“I do not believe that Salti is one of you,” she broke in.
“He is not,” the man said quietly. “He is dead. He was in the way.”
In spite of herself she started, and both men smiled cynically.
“The point is this,” the elder man proceeded. “We do not know how much Salti told you. It is possible that he may have blurted out other and more important—er—schemes than this of the Opera House which has failed. Have you anything to say?”
“Nothing,” she answered.
“Ah! We expected that. Now, let me point out that you are dangerous to us, that there is only one possible course open to you. You must join us.”
“Join you?” she exclaimed, and then laughed.
“Yes,” the man said. “I repeat there is no alternative—none whatever. You must take the oaths.”
“And if I refuse?”