Whither Thou Goest

by William Le Queux

European monarchs and statesmen.

  His knowledge of London and every other foreign capital wasilluminating. He knew every prominent detective, he enjoyed theacquaintance of not a few members of the criminal classes. He washail-fellow-well-met with staunch monarchists and avowed anarchists.But it was always difficult with this man, who had friends in so manycamps, to discover what were his real opinions.

  Maurice who, perhaps, knew him better than anybody, on the mental side,always declared that he had no fixed opinions.

  "When you are with the good old-fashioned Tory," he had said once to himlaughingly, "you are all for King and Church and State and goodGovernment. When you are with the anarchist, your sympathies go withthe poor devils who have got nothing, and want to blow up everybody, inthe hopes of getting a bit out of the wreck."

  And Moreno, in the same jocular spirit, had admitted there was a certainelement of truth in the description.

  "I am so infernally sympathetic, you know, Farquhar. I am like a strawblown by the wind. Any man who can talk to me earnestly for fiveminutes makes me see eye to eye with him. When I have left him, whenthe magnetism of his presence is removed, the cold fit succeeds, and Isee with the eye of Andres Moreno. On the whole, I think I may say I amon the side of law and order."

  And Farquhar had replied in the same half-jocular vein. "Better stickon that side, old man. Otherwise they will end by taking from you eventhat little which you have."

  Since those days of early friendship, the two men had prosperedexceedingly. Moreno was a very highly paid journalist. Farquhar wasone of the rising members of the junior bar.

  The young barrister repeated his question.

  "And you think mischief is brewing, eh?" Moreno raised himself fromwhat appeared to be a deep reverie. It was a peculiarity of the manthat suddenly he would relapse into deep meditation, and for the momentseem oblivious of what was going on around him. Then, in a flash, hiskeen intellect would assert itself, and he would pick up, in a very easyfashion the dropped threads of the previous conversation.

  "Very serious mischief, old man," he said, in his deep, rather huskytones. He spoke English perfectly, by the way, without the slightesttrace of foreign accent. As a matter of fact, he had been born and bredin the country of his mother.

  "Is it a great secret?" questioned Farquhar.

  Moreno looked at him kindly. He was very greatly attached to this quietEnglishman, who had taken him by the hand in those early days when someof the brethren of the pen had regarded him as an outsider, and showntheir dislike very plainly.

  "It is to everybody else, but not to you, my old and tried friend. Ican trust you not to suck another man's brains. Besides, you are out ofthe business now. Yes, there are great things going on, in Madrid,Barcelona and Seville. There are also great things going on in a littlecorner in London, I can assure you."

  Farquhar lifted his eyebrows, but he made no comment. Moreno would talkwhen it pleased him.

  The Spaniard laughed softly, and leaned back in his chair. He was a manof deep and subtle humour, and was continually smiling at the ironiesand incongruities of life.

  "I am going to astonish you now, my good Maurice. To-morrow night I amgoing 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 commityourself to?"

  Moreno shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently.

  "I shall know, and size it all up the day after to-morrow; I am asoldier of fortune, my friend. I am an enterprising journalist--anything for sensation, anything for `copy.' I shall put my anarchistfriends to good use."

  "And they will kill you while you are doing it, or after you have doneit," said Farquhar grimly.

  "You do not pay a very high compliment to my intelligence, my friend. Ithink I may say that I am clever. Anarchists are very stupid people.They will suspect each other long before they suspect Andres Moreno."

  He was a small man, but he looked quite important as he made this boast.Whatever his failings, a want of confidence in himself was not one ofthem. But Farquhar still appeared dubious.

  "I was a little doubtful till last night when I saw your friends at therestaurant," went on Moreno, in his slightly husky voice. "You did notintroduce me, there was no opportunity for that. I recognised one ofthem, Guy Rossett, who, I take it, is the fiance of that charming younglady who, you say, is your cousin."

  Farquhar frowned a little. How quick these foreigners were to guessthings.

  "I have no idea," he said stiffly. "General Clandon is my uncle, and Ihave been on very intimate terms with him and his family since I was achild. If there were any engagement, I think I should have beeninformed."

  Moreno noticed the frown, the stiffness in the tone. He went onsmoothly.

  "I may be jumping at conclusions rather too hastily, but I will tell youhow I arrived at them. I happen to know that Guy Rossett is appointedto the Embassy at Madrid. With his sister, he dines with this charminggirl and a man, obviously her father. It looks to me like a farewelldinner, and at a restaurant which is excellent, but certainly notfashionable. They wanted to escape observation, otherwise a man inRossett's position, and he was certainly the host, would have been atthe Ritz."

  "And what do you deduce from these profound observations, worthy ofSherlock Holmes himself?" asked Farquhar a little testily.

  Moreno answered slowly. He could see that his friend was troubled, buthe had gone too far to recede.

  "I should say there was a secret understanding between the young people,approved of by the girl's father, and the man's sister. Probably theyare still waiting for the Earl's consent to an open engagement."

  Farquhar, to hide his agitation, swallowed his whiskey and soda in onedraught, and chewed viciously at the end of his cigar.

  "You may be right," he said, speaking with forced calm. "Well, let usget back to your anarchists. What has made you join them?"

  Moreno reflected a moment before he spoke.

  "I happen to know that young Rossett was in possession of some veryexclusive information about this particular plot. That is one of thereasons why he has been sent to Spain."

  "And where do you come in?" questioned Farquhar.

  Moreno smiled. "It is as much curiosity as anything. The anarchistsknow that Rossett knows a good deal about them. Now, I want to find outhow they are going to act when Rossett finds himself in Madrid, yousee."

  "And you'll find it out before you are many hours older, cunning olddevil that you are," said Farquhar, with an appreciative smile. "Well,let me know how you get on. Isobel Clandon is my cousin, and I can'thelp feeling interested in all this, especially if what you suggestabout her and Rossett is true."

  When Moreno had left, the ambitious young barrister sat thinking deeply.He had loved his cousin for years, not perhaps with any greatovermastering passion, but with that steady affection which might beexpected from a man of his grave and cautious temperament.

  He was prepared to speak when the time was ripe, when his prospects andcircumstances permitted him to offer Isobel a proper home. Moreno'swords troubled him, and he had an uneasy suspicion that the Spaniard,with his swift intelligence, had accurately gauged the situation. Thefruit which might have been his for the mere stretching out of thehand--had it been plucked by somebody more impetuous, more energeticthan himself?

  This he must learn as soon as possible. Moreno's words had suddenlyroused him to action. He was now blaming in his mind, those very traitson which he had been wont to pride himself, his scrupulousness, hisexcessive caution.

  He had always thought that Isobel liked him, that she would not bereluctant to entertain his advances, when he had judged the time wasright to make them.

  And, of course, he had been a fool. He had not looked at the positionfrom the girl's point of view. A girl, however much she may be inclinedtowards a man, is not disposed to w
ait indefinitely while he is makingup his mind, nicely balancing pros and cons.

  He had never thought of anybody else for his wife. But he had reckonedtoo surely on the fact that she was waiting quietly in that little homeat Eastbourne, till he chose to make love to her.

  He wired to General Clandon the next morning, explaining that he had acouple of days' leisure; might he run down? There came back the cordialreply, "Come at once. Delighted."

  Truth to tell, the General was both proud and fond of his nephew, theson of his favourite sister. He might have thought at times that theyoung man was a little too grave and serious for his years, he hadalways seemed singularly free from the follies of youth. But he had thegreatest respect for his sterling qualities, for his high principles andcharacter.

  Father and daughter met him at the station. Isobel liked