“We could work that out pretty easily, could we not?” queried the Chief of Police eagerly.
“I think not,” was Moreno’s answer. “You would have got this lot out of the way, but there are a few members of the brotherhood left in London, and every man has a knife handy. I must show a clean sheet to those who remain at large. Please trust me, and I will shortly do it in my own way.”
Moreno left after cordial hand-shaking. Both the Chiefs were men of considerable astuteness, and great experience. But they agreed that there was a certain subtlety about this young man, a certain suggestion of strength and confidence, that won their admiration.
Moreno perhaps did not repose quite so much confidence in them as they did in himself.
“I hope to heaven they won’t bungle it at the last minute,” he said to himself as he walked along. “If I were dealing with the French police, I shouldn’t have a doubt.”
He walked down the Puerta del Sol, past the Grand Hotel de la Paix. He saw the tall form of Contraras enter the vestibule. He shrugged his shoulders, and a look of regret stole over his face.
“He is going to hearten her up for this night’s work, the old devil, while he stands safely outside, and looks on. Poor little woman! I wish I could save her. But how can you save a fanatic?” So ran his thoughts. “Why in the name of wonder does a woman who has got everything in the world she requires want to mix herself up with this wretched and bloodthirsty crew? She must lie on the bed she has made, and it will be a pretty hard one, I should wager.”
Moreno walked swiftly in the direction of a poor quarter of the town. He entered the humble abode of an inferior member of the Spanish Secret Service, where he doffed his working-man’s garb and assumed his ordinary clothes.
Later on, he saw Violet Hargrave, who was living close to him.
Violet seemed very restless and perturbed. “This is the great night,” she said by way of greeting. “I wonder if it will come off all right.”