He was in no hurry; he was far too consummate a rogue, too accomplished a schemer, to ruin the delicate combination by any premature move, preferring for the present to renew his forces and calculate his advance, as a chess-player might when he knows the game is in his hands. Then should come the crowning act, by which he should rid himself of the irksome chains which bound him to the League. All his plans were prepared for delivering the leaders into the hands of justice, always with a care to his own escape. As he turned these things over in his mind, he whistled a little air gaily, resumed his breakfast, and opened the broadsheet of the Times to see the news of the day.
Fortune seemed to be smiling upon him, he thought, as he read the mystic announcement in the second outside column. Here was the thing which had caused him so much anxious thought as good as delivered again into his hands. Some friend, perhaps, had discovered his loss, and had determined to return it thus. Perhaps—and here he showed his white teeth in a dazzling smile—some fair one, who had taken this way to show her admiration; for Le Gautier was, like most vain men, a great admirer of the sex, and fully impressed with the all-conquering fascination of his manner. He was not the first clever man who has held such opinions, and found, when too late, the fatal error of underrating the power of an injured woman.
He perfectly understood the advertisement. It was not the first time that newspapers had been employed to do work for the League; nor did he hesitate to avail himself of this golden opportunity. He had scarcely finished his breakfast and made up his mind to meet the mysterious Eastern Eagle, when Salvarini entered. He was moody and preoccupied, with a sombre frown upon his face, telling of much inward uneasiness.
‘I do not like these new arrangements,’ he commenced abruptly, in answer to Le Gautier’s florid greeting. ‘There is great danger in them, and they cannot lead to any good results. I shall oppose them.’
‘Pray, explain yourself, my good Luigi; I am in Cimmerian darkness,’ Le Gautier replied carelessly. ‘You are so dreadfully in earnest; absolutely, you view life through the gloomy spectacles of the League.’
‘It is folly, madness!’ Salvarini replied passionately. ‘Heaven knows, we have had bloodshed enough. What do you think the last proposal is?—Nothing less than the removal of ministers: dynamite is to be the agent, and a special mission arranged to Rome. Visci—our dear old friend Visci—is doomed!’
‘They must be mad,’ Le Gautier returned calmly. ‘But tell me, Luigi, what of Visci?’ he continued, inspired by a sudden thought. ‘I presume you have been holding a Council this morning. Visci used to be a friend of yours. How do they propose to get rid of him?’
‘The dagger!’ Salvarini answered with great agitation. ‘Visci was once a friend of mine, as you say, and yours too, for that. Heaven save me from the task!’
‘But why need it be you? We have new members, new blood as yet untried. Let them show their mettle now. There is no reason why we should always be in the van of battle. But why this sudden determination?’
‘The old story,’ Salvarini continued bitterly—‘private grudges brought in; personal ends to be served where all should be of one accord, all striving for the good of the cause. I am heartsick and weary of the whole affair. Is our path always to be defiled with innocent blood?’