Sobrenski was a man who wasted no time in making up his mind. His success as a leader had depended upon his swiftness of action and unscrupulousness, and his latest manoeuvres had turned out an admirable success, upon which he might safely congratulate himself.
The day following the resolution of the Committee, he had written to
Arithelli, telling her to come to his flat to receive instructions.
She would arrive in due time, and then he would explain things.
He wondered whether she would faint or scream or perhaps refuse, but probably she would be easier to manage now that Poleski was safely out of the way. He had schemed that business well too, and could now spare all his attention for Vardri and the girl.
As to the amount of work they both did, they would be no great loss, for he could easily supply their places by other human machines who would carry out his desires without question. The majority of the men who composed the circle were completely dominated by him, and incapable of opposing his will or argument, and by some he was worshipped as a hero. Callous of suffering in others, he was equally indifferent to it for himself, and if he did not spare his tools he also slaved incessantly day and night.
The large bare room in which he sat possessed very little furniture and no signs of comfort. There were a quantity of books piled on the floor and mantelpiece, and the centre space was filled by an enormous bureau heaped with a mass of printed and written papers, for besides his extensive correspondence he was part-editor of one of the Anarchist journals, which he enlivened by daring and sarcastic contributions. The fragment of the letter that Arithelli had dropped, lay open in front of him. He read it through again and smiled to himself.
"I'll give up even the Cause for your sake," Vardri had written. "Seeing how these men have made you suffer has changed my views. There must be something wrong about our ideas if they produce this cruelty to women. Sobrenski and the others are killing you slowly. I wanted struggle and excitement at one time, and whether it meant Life or Death it was all the same. There was no one to care. Now I want Life and Love and You!"
Another madman like Gaston de Barrés! How alike all these effusions were, all in the same strain. They had found a pile of ravings when they had searched among the property of the heroine of that affair. These were the people who did an incredible amount of harm, who were even more dangerous than the ordinary traitor.
He pushed the letter underneath some others, and Arithelli had knocked more than once, before he called "Entrez!"
He saluted her with a cold scrutiny, telling her to wait till he had finished. He invariably made a point of using no title in addressing her, and never even gave her the customary Anarchist greeting of camarade. He did not invite her to sit down, and she would have been surprised if he had done so. There was another chair at the far end of the room, and she did not trouble to fetch it. Her heart was still further weakened by her illness, and she was breathless after climbing two long flights of stairs. She leant up against the wall, breathing quickly, and thankful for a few moments' respite.
She supposed she was required to play "errand-boy" as usual, and to go through the well-known routine: A crumpled-up slip of paper, which she must hide in her hair or dress, a long walk, or a ride in the electric tram if she happened to have any money, and then perhaps at the end of it she would find the man for whom she was seeking absent, and then she would have to wait till he returned. It was never safe to leave a message. Everything had to be given directly into the hands of those for whom it was intended, and she had spent many weary hours in the rooms of Sobrenski's followers.