“Barrels,” said old Adelbert, squinting. “The winter’s refuse from the building. A—a most untidy spot.”
His soldierly soul had revolted for months at the litter under his window. And somewhere, in the disorder, lay his broken sword. His sword broken, and he— “Truly untidy,” observed the concierge complacently. “A studied untidiness, and even then better than a room I shall show you in the cellar, filled to overflowing with boxes containing the winter’s ashes. Know you,” he went on, dropping his voice, “that these barrels and boxes are but—a third full of rubbish. Below that in cases is—what we speak of.”
“But I thought—a peaceful revolution, a—”
“We prepare for contingencies. Peace if possible. If not, war. I am telling you much because, by your oath, you are now one of us, and bound to secrecy. But, beside that, I trust you. You are a man of your word.”
“Yes,” said old Adelbert, drawing himself up. “I am a man of my word. But you cannot fight with cartridges alone.”
“We have rifles, also, in other places. Even I do not know where all of them are concealed.” The concierge chuckled in his beard. “The Committee knows men well. It trusts none too much. There are other depots throughout the city, each containing supplies of one sort and another. On the day of the uprising each patriot will be told where to go for equipment. Not before.”
Old Adelbert was undoubtedly impressed. He regarded the concierge with furtive eyes. He, Adelbert, had lived in the house with this man of parts for years, and had regarded him as but one of many.
Black Humbert, waiting for the hour to start and filling his tankard repeatedly, grew loquacious. He hinted of past matters in which he had proved his value to the cause. Old Adelbert gathered that, if he had not actually murdered the late Crown Prince and his wife, he had been closely concerned in it. His thin, old flesh crept with anxiety. It was a bad business, and he could not withdraw.
“We should have had the child, too,” boasted the concierge, “and saved much bother. But he had been, unknown to us, sent to the country. A matter of milk, I believe.”
“But you say you do not war on children!”