shock he had received had been the anticipation of the sensation his announcement would make.
He was soon enlightened as to the cause of the silence.
‘I also have received a letter,’ said Francois quietly.
‘And I.’
‘And I.’
‘And I.’
Only Bartholomew did not speak, and he felt the unspoken accusation of the others.
‘I have received no letter,’ he said with an easy laugh—’only these.’ He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced two beans. There was nothing peculiar in these save one was a natural black and the other had been dyed red.
‘What do they mean?’ demanded Starque suspiciously.
‘I have not the slightest idea,’ said Bartholomew with a contemptuous smile; ‘they came in a little box, such as jewellery is sent in, and were unaccompanied either by letter or anything of the kind. These mysterious messages do not greatly alarm me.’
‘But what does it mean?’ persisted Starque, and every neck was craned toward the seeds; ‘they must have some significance — think.’
Bartholomew yawned.
‘So far as I know, they are beyond explanation,’ he said carelessly; ‘neither red nor black beans have played any conspicuous part in my life, so far as I—’
He stopped short and they saw a wave of colour rush to his face, then die away, leaving it deadly pale.
‘Well?’ demanded Starque; there was a menace in the question.
‘Let me see,’ faltered Bartholomew, and he took up the red bean with a hand that shook.
He turned it over and over in his hand, calling up his reserve of strength.
He could not explain, that much he realized.
The explanation might have been possible had he realized earlier the purport of the message he had received, but now with six pairs of suspicious eyes turned upon him, and with his confusion duly noted his hesitation would tell against him.
He had to invent a story that would pass muster.
‘Years ago,’ he began, holding his voice steady, ‘I was a member of such an organization as this: and — and there was a traitor.’ The story was plain to him now, and he recovered his balance. ‘The traitor was discovered and we balloted for his life. There was an equal number for death and immunity, and I as president had to give the casting vote. A red bean was for life and a black for death — and I cast my vote for the man’s death.’
He saw the impression his invention had created and elaborated the story. Starque, holding the red bean in his hand, examined it carefully.
‘I have reason to think that by my action I made many enemies, one of whom probably sent this reminder.’ He breathed an inward sigh of relief as he saw the clouds of doubt lifting from the faces about him. Then —
‘And the £1,000?’ asked Starque quietly.
Nobody saw Bartholomew bite his lip, because his hand was caressing his soft black moustache. What they all observed was the well simulated surprise expressed in the lift of his eyebrows.
‘The thousand pounds?’ he said puzzled, then he laughed. ‘Oh, I see you, too, have heard the story — we found the traitor had accepted that sum to betray us — and this we confiscated for the benefit of the Society — and rightly so,’ he added, indignantly.
The murmur of approbation relieved him of any fear as to the result of his explanation. Even Starque smiled.
‘I did not know the story,’ he said, ‘but I did see the “£1,000” which had been scratched on the side of the red bean; but this brings us no nearer to the solution of the mystery. Who has betrayed us to the Four Just Men?’
There came, as he spoke, a gentle tapping on the door of the room. Francois, who sat at the president’s right hand, rose stealthily and tiptoed to the door.
‘Who is there?’ he asked in a low voice.
Somebody spoke in German, and the voice carried so that every man knew the speaker.
‘The Woman of Gratz,’ said Bartholomew, and in his eagerness he rose to his feet.
If one sought for the cause of friction between Starque and the ex-captain of Irregular Cavalry, here was the end of the search. The flame that came to the eyes of these two men as she entered the room told the story.
Starque, heavily made, animal man to his fingertips, rose to greet her, his face aglow.
‘Madonna,’ he murmured, and kissed her hand.
She was dressed well enough, with a rich sable coat that fitted tightly to her sinuous figure, and a fur toque upon her beautiful head.
She held a gloved hand toward Bartholomew and smiled.
Bartholomew, like his rival, had a way with women; but it was a gentle way, overladen with Western conventions and hedged about with set proprieties. That he was a contemptible villain according to our conceptions is true, but he had received a rudimentary training in the world of gentlemen. He had moved amongst men who took their hats off to their womenkind, and who controlled their actions by a nebulous code. Yet he behaved with greater extravagance than did Starque, for he held her hand in his, looking into her eyes, whilst Starque fidgeted impatiently.
‘Comrade,’ at last he said testily, ‘we will postpone our talk with our little Maria. It would be bad for her to think that she is holding us from our work — and there are the Four—’
He saw her shiver.
‘The Four?’ she repeated. ‘Then they have written to you, also?’
Starque brought his fist with a crash down on the table.
‘You — you! They have dared threaten you? By Heaven—’
‘Yes,’ she went on, and it seemed that her rich sweet voice grew a little husky; ‘they have threatened — me.’
She loosened the furs at her throat as though the room had suddenly become hot and the atmosphere unbreathable.
The torrent of words that came tumbling to the lips of Starque was arrested by the look in her face.
‘It isn’t death that I fear,’ she went on slowly; ‘indeed, I scarcely know what I fear.’
Bartholomew, superficial and untouched by the tragic mystery of her voice, broke in upon their silence. For silenced they were by the girl’s distress.
‘With such men as we about, why need you notice the theatrical play of these Four Just Men?’ he asked, with a laugh; then he remembered the two little beans and became suddenly silent with the rest.
So
