“Ah, Contraras, the dark horse of the conspiracy, connected with the Spanish nobility through your wife. I think I have met you at the Court. Alvedero—ah, for some time you have been suspect. Zorrilta, I know you well. Governor of the Province of Navarre.”
He pointed to Somoza. “This gentleman I do not know. We shall find something about him later on.”
He turned to Moreno, who preserved an impassive demeanour.
“I have not the honour of knowing this gentleman, either,” he said with a splendid disregard of the truth, for which Moreno admired him immensely. “But no doubt I shall shortly atone for my ignorance. I shall have something to say to him later on.”
He turned to his subordinates. “Handcuff them and take them along.”
Moreno all the time had been edging nearer to the door. Suddenly he pulled out a knife, and hurled himself at the man who was guarding it. The man went down before the apparently savage onslaught. Moreno rushed down the stairs.
“After him,” yelled the Chief. “Don’t let that man escape.”
Three of the waiting men clattered down the stairs after the flying Moreno. They returned a few moments later, crestfallen. They explained that he had flown like the wind, that they had lost him in the darkness.
The Chief swore roundly, and cursed them. “Dolts, idiots!” he cried fiercely. “You have let him slip through your fingers. I believe he is the most dangerous man of the lot.”
He was certainly playing his part splendidly. It had, of course, all been rehearsed. The man on whom Moreno had sprung had fallen down of his own accord. The men who had been dispatched to pursue him had lost him on purpose.