Rossett bowed to his companion’s superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.
“Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post.”
Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted.
“Do you mind explaining a little more fully,” he said cautiously.
Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other’s caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.
“My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?” Guy nodded. “So far, you are right.”
It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett’s promotion, for certain private reasons.
“I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment.” Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming.
“I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter.”
Moreno assented blandly. “Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy.”