Violet spoke in a low, hard voice. And she also felt there was need of caution.
“I have lived a very hard life, depending upon charity, generous charity I admit, for many years. I think I do not love the present order of things. I am really an anarchist; I think I may truly say my heart is in it.”
Moreno accepted her statement. She was still an enigma to him. She had spoken of Jaques with a genuine sense of gratitude, she had alluded to her late husband in terms of sincere affection. The woman had her sentimental moments.
Then he remembered that she was the daughter of a drunken and derelict father—this much she had told him. Her mother was a Spanish dancer of unknown origin. Out of this peculiar blend, was it possible to fashion an honest woman. Moreno doubted it.
He remembered the night in the flat at Mount Street, when she had vindictively declared that Guy Rossett had to be got out of the way.
He had looked at the still very pretty woman, her fair cheeks just a little flushed with the after results of the good dinner. She had, perhaps, her good points, but was she not an absolute degenerate? Daughter of the wastrel father and the Spanish dancer!
He had been very sympathetic through the recital. He had helped her on with an encouraging word or two in the pauses of her narrative, for at times she had evidently pulled herself up with the recollection that she was being too frank. But he had learned a good deal about Violet’s past.
He still had his suspicions. Perhaps another dinner or two might get more out of her.
The four conspirators sat in the little room facing the sea. Violet Hargrave, by the way, was dressed in a peasant costume.
Alvedero spoke in his deep voice. “I think, for the present, we will make Fonterrabia our headquarters. It is a quiet little town, and, for the moment, not suspect.”