"Isn't it preposterous!" she said. "The idea of raising money for such a purpose from people like Baron Hague!"
"Baron Hague left for Berlin this morning. We shall probably never know under what circumstances he issued his cheque for fifty thousand pounds! Doesn't it seem just awful, with all this money floating about, that poor Sir Richard is nearly stranded for quite a trifle!"
"Oh, it is dreadful! And I can see no way out."
"No," murmured Zoe. "Yet there must be a way."
She walked to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully upon the Embankment far below.
What a strange, complex drama moved about her! It was impossible even to determine for what parts some of the players were cast. Where, she wondered, was Inspector Sheffield now? And where was Séverac Bablon? So far as she was aware, both were actually in the Astoria. There was something almost uncanny in the elusiveness of Séverac Bablon. His disdain of all attempts to compass his downfall betokened something more than bravado. He must know himself immune.
Why?
If what he had rather hinted than declared were true—and never for a moment did she doubt his sincerity—then his accomplices, his friends, his subjects (she knew not how to name them), must be numberless. Was she, herself, not of their ranks?
Of the thousands who moved beneath her, upon trams, in cabs, in cars, on foot, how many were servants of that mysterious master? It was fascinating, yet terrifying, this inside knowledge of a giant conspiracy, of which, at that moment, the civilised world was talking. Mary Evershed's voice broke in upon her musing:
"Come along, Zoe. We shall never be back in time for lunch if we don't hurry."