Part 11 (2/2)

In the mirror that faced him Emile saw the quick furtive glance bestowed upon him, though he sat apparently unconscious of it.

Something at the back of his brain suggested to him that he knew the man's face, that he had seen him before. A spy probably. It was nothing unusual for any of them to be ”shadowed,” and for their out-goings and in-comings to be noted.

The highly gilded French clock on the mantel-piece at the far end of the room announced the hour as being a quarter to twelve. Emile stooped down to pick up his sombrero which had tumbled off a chair on to the floor, when he remained with outstretched hand, arrested by the sound of a woman's voice which came through the partly opened door of the proprietor's private room and office. A woman's voice? It was Arith.e.l.li's unmistakably.

He recovered himself and the sombrero together, and twisted round in his seat so as to get a view of the door, which was on his left hand, half way down the long room. It had a gla.s.s top, across which a dark green curtain was drawn. Emile knew that it was possible to enter this room without pa.s.sing through the _cafe_. There was another door which led into a pa.s.sage through the kitchen and back part of the house, and from thence into a side-street, or rather a small alley.

He had often been that way, and it was generally used by the frequenters of the place when they had reason to guard their movements.

He listened again.

The voice was even more hoa.r.s.e than usual and more uncertain. Though he could not hear the words, the broken sentences gave an impression of breathlessness. When she stopped speaking he heard the voice of the proprietor raised in an emphatic stage-whisper. Yes, Monsieur Poleski was within. Mademoiselle was fortunately in time to find him. If Mademoiselle would give herself the trouble to wait but for one moment--.

The little man fancied himself an adept at intrigue, and his methods were often a cause of anxiety to those he befriended. His nods and gestures and meaning glances as he emerged would have been enough to arouse suspicion in the most guileless.

He stood blinking his short-sighted eyes through the haze in his effort to attract Emile's attention without being detected. The latter got up and sauntered towards him.

”_Bon soir, Monsieur Lefevre_,” he said carelessly. ”We have a little account to settle, you and I, is it not so?”

Fat Monsieur Lefevre rose gallantly to the occasion. He bowed Emile into the room, locked the door by which they had entered, and with another bow and a muttered apology scuttled through the pa.s.sage into the back regions. Two minutes later he made his reappearance in the _cafe_ by the front way, and went to his place behind the counter with the satisfied face of a successful diplomatist.

His little sanctum was typical in its arrangement of the Parisian _bourgeois_.

Numerous picture post-cards of a famous chanteuse of the Folies Bergeres proclaimed Monsieur's taste in beauty. For the rest, everything was neat and rather bare of furniture. There were chairs symmetrically arranged like sentinels along the walls, tinted lace curtains, a gilded mirror, and a few doubtful coloured pictures, all of women. An unshaded electric light flared in a corner. Arith.e.l.li stood resting one hand on the round polished table in the centre of the apartment. Her dark blue dress was torn in two places, and smeared with patches of dust. The _velo_, or piece of drapery worn on ordinary occasions instead of the mantilla, hung down her back in company with the long plait of hair, which had come untwisted at the ends. Her face was strained and haggard, and the tense att.i.tude spoke of tortured nerves.

She was still struggling for breath, and appeared almost unable to speak, but Emile was not minded to allow her much time for recovery.

Patience was not numbered among such virtues as he possessed.

”_Tiens_!” he began. ”What is it now, Fatalite? You look as if you had been having adventures. Have you been getting into mischief? And where have you been?”

”In the Calle de Pescadores out at Barcelonetta. Sobrenski sent me with a message to you. The place is being watched. If they see you go in you may be arrested. The others got to hear about the spies, and went early. They are going to stay there all night because it isn't safe to leave.” Her tone was that of one who repeats a well-learned lesson.

Emile shrugged. ”Spies? So that's it! There was a man just now in the _cafe_ who looked like it. Probably he is waiting to go outside now to 'shadow' me. He may wait till--! And how did you get out?”

”They let me down from a window at the back of the house. I got on to the quay and came here by the long way and through the Rambla.” There was a pause, and then she said in the same mechanical voice, ”Sobrenski said I was to tell you not to come. It isn't safe.”

Emile did not answer. He could see that she was trembling violently and on the verge of an hysterical crisis. He rather hoped she would break down. It would seem more natural. Women were privileged to cry and scream, not that it was possible to imagine her screaming. He dragged forward a chair from the immaculate row against the wall.

As he did so he noticed that she kept her left hand behind her back as if to conceal something.

”Sit down,” he ordered. ”What's the matter with your hand? Are you hurt?”

The girl retreated before him.

”No!” she answered defiantly.

But Emile's quick eyes had seen a crumpled handkerchief flecked with red stains.

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