“It is to everybody else, but not to you, my old and tried friend. I can trust you not to suck another man’s brains. Besides, you are out of the business now. Yes, there are great things going on, in Madrid, Barcelona and Seville. There are also great things going on in a little corner in London, I can assure you.”
Farquhar lifted his eyebrows, but he made no comment. Moreno would talk when it pleased him.
The Spaniard laughed softly, and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of deep and subtle humour, and was continually smiling at the ironies and incongruities of life.
“I am going to astonish you now, my good Maurice. To-morrow night I am going to be inducted as a member of an anarchist society in Soho.”
Farquhar, disturbed in his well-balanced mind, gave a violent start.
“Are you mad, Andres? Have you any idea of what you will commit yourself to?”
Moreno shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently.
“I shall know, and size it all up the day after to-morrow; I am a soldier of fortune, my friend. I am an enterprising journalist—anything for sensation, anything for ‘copy.’ I shall put my anarchist friends to good use.”
“And they will kill you while you are doing it, or after you have done it,” said Farquhar grimly.
“You do not pay a very high compliment to my intelligence, my friend. I think I may say that I am clever. Anarchists are very stupid people. They will suspect each other long before they suspect Andres Moreno.”