“Go my friend, come back and report to us.” Moreno, well pleased, strode out, and soon overtook the priest, who was walking leisurely.
“Good evening, Father,” he said pleasantly. He also added a few Spanish words which were a password.
When he heard those magic words, the priest’s lean, ascetic face changed at once.
“You are one of us?” he asked briefly.
“Of course. My name is Moreno. I am attached to the English Secret Service, and I am helping your Government to beat the anarchists.”
“Good,” said Father Gonzalo. “Those people I saw you with in the little sitting-room at the ‘Concha,’ I know the two well, Zorrilta and Alvedero; the woman I do not know. I take it they are all anarchists. You are joining up with them for your own purposes.”
“Precisely,” answered Moreno. “Keep your eyes open too. This is, at present, the headquarters of the conspiracy.”
“My son, good night,” said the wily Jesuit in his most paternal tones. “We shall meet again. You have, of course, made a good excuse for leaving your friends, and running after me.”
Moreno smiled. “When I return I shall give the best report of you, a report that I trust will disarm suspicion. But it is as well to put you on your guard. You have a very keen enemy here, one Carlos Somoza, a fisherman. Conciliate him, if you can.” The Jesuit’s dark eyes flashed. “I know him. The dirty dog. I will be on my guard. I will go to Santa Gadea, and pray for my sins.”
The unctuous priest stole away. Moreno watched his departure with a contemptuous smile. He did not seem a very valiant member of the church militant.