“That I am also keen to know. There are always traitors in every camp. Perhaps some day I may find out.”
The two men talked till it was time for Luçue to catch his train. Contraras walked with him to the station.
The chief wrung him by the hand. “If you ever find that traitor, no half measures, you understand.”
Luçue smiled a grim smile. “You can never accuse me of sentimentality. The penalty for every traitor is death.”
Chapter Nine.
It had been a very hot August day. The old-world town of Fonterrabia had glowed in the torrid heat. With the sinking of the sun had come a sudden breath of comparative coolness.
In a small room facing the sea, in the obscure little café “The Concho” there sat four people. They were respectively, Zorrilta, Jaime Alvedero, two of the most trusted lieutenants of the great Contraras—Contraras who directed his world-wide campaign from the safe and sheltered precincts of Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead—Andres Moreno, journalist, trusted agent of the English Secret Service, ostensibly sworn anarchist, and lastly Violet Hargrave, now domiciled in Spain in the interests of the brotherhood, in England a somewhat well-known member of the semi-smart set.
Moreno, as we know, was the son of a purely Spanish father and an English mother. Violet Hargrave was not greatly given to confidences. But the pair had been thrown much together. In spite of their mixed nationality, Spain was, to a great extent, a foreign land to them.