Of course, in this letter, Moreno did not explain his methods. If he had done so, Guy might not have been in quite such high spirits.
For at this moment, playing his very difficult game of saving Guy Rossett, saving himself and Violet Hargrave, and also snaring the anarchists, Moreno could only give his full confidence to one man, his old friend and companion, Maurice Farquhar.
As a matter of fact, Rossett never knew what had really taken place that night. He was never told that Moreno knew of his projected visit to Isobel that evening, from a random remark of hers dropped in the afternoon—that he had set Somoza and another tall Biscayan fisherman to follow him, for the purpose of bringing him to the house where the heads of the anarchist movement were assembled in solemn conclave.
Rossett walked gaily along. He would have a precious hour with Isobel. In a dark street two men came up behind him. One pinioned his arms from behind. Somoza pressed a saturated handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds the unfortunate young diplomatist was drugged and helpless.
A cab, driven by a member of the brotherhood, had crawled slowly after the two men. As soon as the driver saw what had happened, he drove rapidly up. The two powerful men lifted the inert body into the vehicle. He was partially recovered when they halted at the house where the tribunal of five was sitting to pronounce judgment on the man who had dared to thwart their plans.
They locked him in a room adjoining that in which Contraras was presiding over the deliberations of his five trusted lieutenants. After locking him in securely, Somoza went to report the matter to Moreno. His colleague, the other Biscayan fisherman, remained on guard outside the closed door, for fear of untoward accidents. Rossett was a powerful man.
Contraras, with his fine intellectual face, his hair in places turning from iron-grey to white, looked the embodiment of dignified justice. Perhaps, in his warped and fanatical mind, he believed he was.
He spoke in his most judicial accents. “Nobody shall ever say that he has not had a fair trial, when brought up before the tribunal of the brotherhood. We will wait an hour, if it is necessary, for this misguided young man to recover his senses.” Moreno, who had arrived the last of the party, looked round with a sudden start. “Where is our comrade, Violet Hargrave?”
Contraras hastened to explain. “Ah! of course you have not heard. Alvedero went to bring her here, according to arrangement. He found her stretched on the sofa, motionless and inanimate. He thinks she is in a dying condition. He is going round to inquire after these proceedings are over.”
“This is very sad,” said Moreno, in his gravest manner. “And she is such a nice woman personally, and so devoted to the Cause, through the influence of Jaques. I wonder,”—he cast an inquiring look at Alvedero—“if, by any chance, she drinks or drugs. Many apparently nice women do!” Alvedero shook his big head. “I doubt it. I should say a seizure of some sort. Perhaps her heart is weak. She looks a little fragile.”