"She lives in Bloomsbury Square, I believe?"
"Yes--Number one thousand," said Baldini, rising. "If you intend to call on her, I warn you, my friend, you won't be well received. She cares for nothing but Anarchists."
"And Herne?"
"Oh, that's nonsense. She only cares for him because she wants his money to work up a plot against the Czar."
"Then there is no love in the matter?"
"Love!" echoed the signor contemptuously. "If you knew Catinka well you wouldn't ask so absurd a question. She's got no more heart than one of those bombs her friends manufacture. Well, good-day, Mexton; glad to see you. Sorry to go, but awfully busy," and Signor Baldini rattled himself out of the door, as though his life depended on speedy movement.
Left alone, Paul finished his luncheon thoughtfully. The explanation given by Baldini seemed to put the guilt of Catinka out of the question; at all events, it removed the sole motive she could have for such a wicked act--that of jealousy. If she was not in love with Herne, she could not be jealous at hearing--as she must have heard--of his engagement to Milly; and if she was not jealous, she had no reason to commit so preposterous a crime. Yet she had been in Barnstead Church on the night of the crime--as was proved by the Marborough friend of Mrs. Drass--and she had been on the fatal spot also, as was confirmed by the evidence of the rainbow feather picked up by Herne. What was the badge of a political society doing in the Winding Lane? and why had Herne seemed so startled when he picked it up? It was these questions which Paul wished to ask of Catinka; in the answering of which he hoped to find a clue to the assassin. He was convinced that the solution of the mystery was connected with the rainbow feather.
Catinka, as he found, occupied the first floor of a gloomy old mansion in Bloomsbury Square. When Paul ascended the wide staircase, which had borne the tread of Georgian belles and beaux, he found himself before a massive door, which bore a brass plate, upon which the name "Catinka" was inscribed. No one knew what was the Polish girl's surname, as she preferred to be known by that which she had made famous in the world of music. Perhaps she intended to reveal who she was when heading the intended revolt against Russia; but in all artistic London she was known only by her first name; and then, as everybody stated, "Catinka" by itself looked well on the bills.
A sallow maidservant with rather a foreign air opened the door, and conveyed the card of Paul to her mistress. Speedily she returned, and led him into a cosy sitting-room with two windows which looked out on to the grimy trees in the centre of the square. It did not appear like the den of a conspirator, for the paper was of a cheerful pattern, the chairs and sofa were covered with rose-sprigged chintz, and on the walls were portraits, signed by the leading musicians and singers of the day. Judging from the number of these, Catinka was a favourite with her fellow-artistes.
There was also a grand piano, covered with loose sheets of music, and a violin lying carelessly on the top; but what attracted Paul most was a fan of stained feathers, which was spread out in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece. The four colours mentioned by Baldini stretched in bars across the fan; and Paul became aware that he was looking at the symbol of the Anarchist society of which he had lately heard so much. Dyed feathers and an innocent-looking fan; yet the sign of the hatred borne by a crushed country against its conqueror. Paul was struck by the incongruity of the symbol and its meaning.