Apart from his own special legal business, which absorbed his best faculties, he was a man of many interests. During the lean years, when he had waited for briefs, he had supplemented his modest patrimony by journalism. He became a somewhat well-known figure in Fleet Street, specialising more or less upon foreign politics.
Then, when the briefs began to flow in, he had gradually dropped journalism. Now and again, at the earnest request of a persistent editor, he would write an article or a letter on some burning question, in which he could display his particular knowledge of affairs.
In those old journalistic days, happy, careless days, when a dinner at the old “Cheshire Cheese” was accounted something of a luxury, when he never entered the portals of the Ritz or Carlton, save as the guest of some rich friend or relation, he had struck up a great comradeship with Andres Moreno, son of a Spanish father and an English mother, an adroit and clever journalist, who could turn his hand to anything.
Nothing came amiss to Moreno; he was the handy man of journalism. He could write a most flamboyant description of a fashionable bazaar. He could, in a sufficiently well-paid article, penetrate the subtle schemes of European monarchs and statesmen.
His knowledge of London and every other foreign capital was illuminating. He knew every prominent detective, he enjoyed the acquaintance of not a few members of the criminal classes. He was hail-fellow-well-met with staunch monarchists and avowed anarchists. But it was always difficult with this man, who had friends in so many camps, 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 him laughingly, “you are all for King and Church and State and good Government. When you are with the anarchist, your sympathies go with the poor devils who have got nothing, and want to blow up everybody, in the hopes of getting a bit out of the wreck.”
And Moreno, in the same jocular spirit, had admitted there was a certain element of truth in the description.
“I am so infernally sympathetic, you know, Farquhar. I am like a straw blown by the wind. Any man who can talk to me earnestly for five minutes makes me see eye to eye with him. When I have left him, when the magnetism of his presence is removed, the cold fit succeeds, and I see with the eye of Andres Moreno. On the whole, I think I may say I am on the side of law and order.”
And Farquhar had replied in the same half-jocular vein. “Better stick on that side, old man. Otherwise they will end by taking from you even that little which you have.”
Since those days of early friendship, the two men had prospered exceedingly. Moreno was a very highly paid journalist. Farquhar was one of the rising members of the junior bar.
The young barrister repeated his question.
“And you think mischief is brewing, eh?” Moreno raised himself from what appeared to be a deep reverie. It was a peculiarity of the man that suddenly he would relapse into deep meditation, and for the moment seem oblivious of what was going on around him. Then, in a flash, his keen intellect would assert itself, and he would pick up, in a very easy fashion the dropped threads of the previous conversation.
“Very serious mischief, old man,” he said, in his deep, rather husky tones. He spoke English perfectly, by the way, without the slightest trace of foreign accent. As a matter of fact, he had been born and bred in the country of his mother.
“Is it a great secret?” questioned Farquhar.
Moreno looked at him kindly. He was very greatly attached to this quiet Englishman, who had taken him by the hand in those early days when some of the brethren of the pen had regarded him as an outsider, and shown their dislike very plainly.
“It is to everybody else, but not to you, my old and tried friend. I can trust you not to suck another man’s brains. Besides, you are out of the business now. Yes, there are great things going on, in Madrid, Barcelona and Seville. There are also great things going on in a little corner in London, I can assure you.”
Farquhar lifted his eyebrows, but he made no comment. Moreno would talk when it pleased him.
The Spaniard laughed softly, and leaned back in his chair. He was a man of deep and subtle humour, and was continually smiling at the ironies and incongruities of life.
“I am going to astonish you now, my good Maurice. To-morrow night I am going 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 commit yourself to?”
Moreno shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently.
“I shall know, and size it all up the day after to-morrow; I am a soldier of fortune, my friend. I am an enterprising journalist – anything for sensation, anything for ‘copy.’ I shall put my anarchist friends to good use.”
“And they will kill you while you are doing it, or after you have done it,” said Farquhar grimly.
“You do not pay a very high compliment to my intelligence, my friend. I think 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 of them. But Farquhar still appeared dubious.
“I was a little doubtful till last night when I saw your friends at the restaurant,” went on Moreno, in his slightly husky voice. “You did not introduce me, there was no opportunity for that. I recognised one of them, Guy Rossett, who, I take it, is the fiancé of that charming young lady who, you say, is your cousin.”
Farquhar frowned a little. How quick these foreigners were to guess things.
“I have no idea,” he said stiffly. “General Clandon is my uncle, and I have been on very intimate terms with him and his family since I was a child. If there were any engagement, I think I should have been informed.”
Moreno noticed the frown, the stiffness in the tone. He went on smoothly.
“I may be jumping at conclusions rather too hastily, but I will tell you how I arrived at them. I happen to know that Guy Rossett is appointed to the Embassy at Madrid. With his sister, he dines with this charming girl and a man, obviously her father. It looks to me like a farewell dinner, and at a restaurant which is excellent, but certainly not fashionable. They wanted to escape observation, otherwise a man in Rossett’s position, and he was certainly the host, would have been at the Ritz.”
“And what do you deduce from these profound observations, worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself?” asked Farquhar a little testily.
Moreno answered slowly. He could see that his friend was troubled, but he 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 they are still waiting for the Earl’s consent to an open engagement.”
Farquhar, to hide his agitation, swallowed his whiskey and soda in one draught, and chewed viciously at the end of his cigar.
“You may be right,” he said, speaking with forced calm. “Well, let us get 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 very exclusive information about this particular plot. That is one of the reasons 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 anarchists know that Rossett knows a good deal about them. Now, I want to find out how they are going to act when Rossett finds himself in Madrid, you see.”
“And