They had been silent for some time, and both started when the door was assaulted by a sudden thump, and the scarecrow-like visage of the depressed landlady appeared in the opening.
Having delivered herself of a small cardboard box, and a few grumbling comments upon the indecent hours and ways of circus performers, she withdrew, and Arithelli proceeded to cut the string and remove the lid.
"I can't see what it is in this light," she said; "Emile, may I have the candle a little nearer? Flowers? No one sends me flowers now. But these are—"
Her voice broke and stopped. Emile, who had been on the alert from the moment of the landlady's entrance, sprang up and pulled the girl to one side. A mysterious parcel at that hour of the night, too late for any post. One might have guessed what it meant.
"What is it?" he asked sharply. The answer was an incoherent one, and he could see that she was paralysed with terror.
The opening of the box had revealed a sinister-looking bouquet of artificial black roses tied with blood-red ribbons.
In Barcelona there are many strange and ingenious ways of conveying death by explosives. A clock, a painted casket which might contain bon-bons; a coffee-pot, a casserole—any apparently harmless and common utensil.
A bunch of flowers was one of the most common mediums for a bomb.
The Anarchist colours showed clearly that it must either have been sent by an enemy who had been formerly one of the band, and who was now revenging himself by an attempt to see his former associates "hoist with their own petard," or else it was an affair of the police. In any case, supposing the thing to be harmless, it was a warning of danger.
Emile's wits worked swiftly, and he was used to emergencies. He looked round, and found a jug of water, and the floral tribute floated harmlessly therein. As it did not sink at once he concluded that there was no concealed bomb. Then he turned his attention to Arithelli, and gave her a vigorous shaking, which was probably, under the circumstances, the best possible restorative.