They walked along arm in arm, both occupied with their own thoughts. Mrs Hargrave broke the long silence.
“He is a wonderful man. If he is dejected to-night, he will be full of energy and vigour to-morrow.” Moreno agreed. “Yes, he will think of more coups. I suppose the next one will be the removal of Mr Rossett.”
Violet made no answer immediately. Then, presently she said. “I fancy he is considered a rather dangerous person from our point of view.” Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “And yet I fancy his removal would not greatly hasten the new era, do you? He is really a quite insignificant person. If Valerie had brought it off to-night, well and good—but I must confess these minor developments don’t interest me greatly. Do they interest you?”
“A little, I think,” answered Mrs Hargrave, in a somewhat faint voice.
Moreno looked at her steadfastly. Her nerves were a bit out of order to-night. That long vigil outside the Palace had told on them—that waiting for the crash of the bombs which Valerie Delmonte had carried in her pocket, the bombs which now had been appropriated by the Chief of Police.
He gave her arm a tender pressure. “I believe at bottom you are really a womanly woman. The end justifies the means, of course, but some of the means are very bloodthirsty, don’t you think?”
“I thought so to-night, when I was waiting to hear the crash of those devilish, cunning little bombs, the latest invention of science, as our good old Contraras assures us.”
Moreno pulled himself up; perhaps he had been a little too frank. But he knew that the photographed letter always gave him the whip-hand of Violet Hargrave.
“Still, we must not be squeamish. Revolutions are not made with rose-water, and you must break eggs to make omelettes.”
“Absolutely true.” Mrs Hargrave, looking provokingly pretty under her veil, sighed a soft assent to these platitudes. He fancied her arm gave a responsive pressure to his.