‘I have something of serious import to say to you,’ were Mora’s first words as he went forward a few steps and then halted. ‘Hector Laroche, do you know that you are in imminent danger of your life?’
He gave a little start and looked at her fixedly for a moment or two. ‘No; I am not aware of anything of the kind,’ he answered with a sneer. ‘Madame, you are oracular!’
‘Oh, hush! This is no time for levity. Will you not believe me when I tell you that your life is in danger? The assassins have tracked you—they have followed you here—they have sworn to take your life!’
‘The assassins! What assassins?’ he shrieked as he bounded to his feet.
‘Can you not guess? Think, Laroche, think! Oh, how like you it was to turn traitor to the cause to which you had bound yourself by oath, and to betray your comrades! But your treachery has been discovered. The penalty you cannot be ignorant of.’
He had turned livid with terror while Mora was speaking. A glassy film had overspread his eyes, which looked dilated to twice their ordinary size. His gaze wandered from corner to corner of the room with a sort of stealthy fright, as if dreading that an assassin might spring upon him at any moment. A cold perspiration bathed him from head to foot; he trembled in every limb, and would have fallen had he not supported himself with his back and hands against the bureau.
‘How am I to know that what you have just told me has any truth in it?’ he asked at length, with a strange hoarseness in his voice. ‘What should you, Mora De Vigne, know of secret societies, plots, and conspiracies? Who should speak to you of these things, the secrets of which are known to the initiated alone? No; it is a lie—a lie! Some wretched fool has imposed upon you, or else you have concocted this story yourself in order to frighten me away.’
Looking straight at him, Mora said slowly: ‘The right hand of the Czar is frozen.’
A low cry burst from the wretched man’s lips; he buried his face in his hands and fell on his knees; he knew that his doom was sealed.
A pang of compassion shot through Mora’s heart. She made a step or two forward and then drew back with a shudder. All her womanly instincts revolted against the man. Not even at that supreme moment could she bring herself to go near him. ‘You must go away at once—to-night,’ she said. ‘To-morrow may be too late.’ She found herself repeating the very words of Jules.