“I am Andres Moreno, a Fleet Street journalist, who mixes with all sorts and conditions of men.”
“Ah, I remember now.” Jackson, to call him by his assumed name, shook him cordially by the hand. “And so, you are one of us?”
“Yes, very much so,” replied Moreno quietly.
“Our friend Luçue converted me to the good cause. He is a wonderful man.”
Jackson repeated the enthusiasm of Maceda.
“A genius, my dear friend, an absolute genius. If the great cause triumphs, it will be due to him.” Another worshipper, thought Moreno, with a quiet, inward chuckle. They were all certainly very serious, with a whole-hearted worship of their leader.
The great leader looked round the room with his broad, genial smile.
“All here, except the two ladies,” he said. “We must wait for the ladies. It is their privilege to be late. We must exercise patience.”
As he spoke, two women entered the room, one obviously a Frenchwoman, the other as obviously an Englishwoman.
Jackson darted across the apartment, a somewhat grotesque figure, bowed to the foreigner, and shook the Englishwoman cordially by the hand.