“Guy Rossett may prove very dangerous. I think Luçue and Mademoiselle Delmonte, from the few words I have exchanged with them to-night, have resolved on a certain course of action.”
“Ah!” The journalist also bent forward, in an attitude of simulated eagerness.
When Mrs Hargrave spoke again, she looked a different woman. Over her face came a hard, vindictive look. The dainty, almost doll-like prettiness had disappeared.
“Guy Rossett must be got out of the way, before he can do much mischief.”
And Moreno, with his swift intuition, at once grasped the situation. This slender, feminine thing, with her soft ways and graces, was a revengeful and scorned woman. She had loved Rossett, and he had refused to accept her love. He shuddered in his soul to think that the spirit of revenge could carry a woman to such lengths.
But he had only to play his part. It would never do to let her know that he suspected, or the tigress’s claws would rend himself.
“A regrettable but inexorable necessity,” he said calmly. “If Rossett menaces the schemes of the brotherhood, he must be got out of the way.”