Moreno, for obvious reasons, did not pursue the subject. Violet Hargrave’s absence had evidently excited no comment, no suspicion.
A quarter of an hour had elapsed. Somoza was deputed to enter the locked room and ascertain the condition of the prisoner. Contraras was resolved to proceed justly, according to his interpretation of the word justice.
Somoza returned after his inspection, and reported that the effects of the saturated handkerchief had worn off. Guy Rossett was in a sense clothed in his right mind. He was fit to face the tribunal.
The members of the conclave assumed masks. Somoza had worn a mask when he had entered the locked room. Whatever happened, it was essential that Guy Rossett should not be able to identify any one of them.
The prisoner, or captive, whatever he might be called, was brought in. In the cab he had been bound securely round the legs and wrists, but not painfully. He was assisted to a chair by the masked Somoza, where he sat facing his judges.
His face was a little pale, due to the effects of the chloroform, but his demeanour was firm. He felt himself in a very tight corner, but he had been assured so often by Moreno that he need never despair. A good angel, in the shape of Moreno himself, was watching over him.
He cast his glance rapidly over the masked men confronting him. Where was the black-browed young journalist whom he had known in old days?
Yes, there on the right, nearest to the door. Had that position been chosen by accident or design? He recognised at once the short, squat figure. Through the holes of the mask, he could see the gleam of those dark eyes. His demeanour would be more indomitable than ever.
Contraras opened the proceedings in his most judicial manner.
“Mr Rossett, you will recognise that you are now at the mercy of the brotherhood, against whom for some time you have directed your activities.”