it had a pulse in it. These were details which Wendover’s trained eye and instinct absorbed and noticed almost mechanically. He knew, only too well, that these little signs and portents would interest him later on.
But it was the fifth man who attracted Wendover’s particular attention—a man short, and inclined to be fat, and absolutely bald, with clean shaven lips which were thick and sensual, and hard and cruel at the same time. A blunt, pugnacious nose was scarcely concealed by the mask behind which Wendover could discern a pair of eyes, dull and lifeless, and at the same time menacing as those of a snake. The mask disguise was enough for all practical purposes, but those dreadful lips were not lost upon Wendover, and he knew now that he would recognise the man before him whenever they met in the future, and under all conditions. And that his very existence depended upon this remembrance. Wendover knew as if the man had risen from his seat and had threatened him by name. He knew that here was the man John Garcia, the man whom he had truly believed to be a prisoner in Geneva. But that had been all a mistake of course. In the light of recent information, gained only a few yards away there in the ball-room, Wendover had learnt, by a piece of pure good fortune, that his plans had miscarried. Doubtless John Garcia had obtained early tidings of his danger, and, secure in the knowledge that he was not known by sight to the Geneva police, had cajoled the hapless Detmar into impersonating him for the moment.
The confirmation of this inspired Wendover, and spurred him on to the effort that lay before him. He had a healthy respect for this chief foe of his, and, indeed, for every man who sat round the table. For they were all after one thing. They called themselves anarchists, and the foe of the oppressor in every land, but every one of them, seated there, behind his black mask, turned a restless glance every now and again in the direction of the open safe. It was the contents of the safe they were after. For the sake of its precious contents, they were prepared to commit any crime under the sun, and they were prepared to sacrifice one another, and all the time John Garcia was sitting there, with murder in his heart, deliberately planning the destruction of his colleagues. One by one he would strike them down, as he had struck Detmar down an hour or so ago, with an unparalleled audacity that stamped him as a master criminal. And it was amongst those that Wendover had come, taking his life in his hands, fighting for a great stake in a good cause, for a pure and beautiful girl and the fortune that was undoubtedly hers.
And, even as he stood there, conscious of his danger, he had his dreams. He knew that he had challenged the powers of darkness for something more than pure chivalry. He was stretching out his strong, right arm for the lifelong happiness and prosperity both of Zena Corroda and himself. And it was characteristic of the man that he had already made up his mind as to the future. It would be no fault of his if he did not win something infinitely more precious than the tempting vein of wealth behind that open door.
It was John Garcia who spoke first, though, naturally, he did not speak in his private capacity, nor, indeed, were the Brotherhood aware of the real identity of the individual who addressed them. This was the reason for the masks—a precaution against treachery from one man to another. Garcia spoke in a hard, rasping voice, not much above a whisper, that carried to the farthest corner of the room.
“I am here with a message,” he said. “I come here, representing the man who is known to you all by name as John Garcia, our accredited leader. So far, no one has seen him in the flesh, at least, under his proper name, and only about two of you, if as many, have the privilege of knowing him. Now, Garcia has been betrayed into the hands of our enemies by someone outside the Brotherhood. Just for the moment it matters nothing who it is who has been guilty of this thing. Garcia will know, in due course, how to punish the author of this black treachery.”
A murmur of approval ran all round the room.
“Sufficient for the moment it is that your great leader lies in a foreign gaol,” the speaker went on impressively. “But not for long, not for long. And, once he is free, he will know when and where to strike. Let it be assumed that I am here, acting on his behalf. Believe me, my friends, when I tell you that the proofs of this black treachery on the part of one that your leader never harmed, lie within the sealed envelope that I hold in my hand.”
Wendover held his breath for a moment. There was an unexpected development that he had not anticipated. What if his secret had been disclosed, what if the president of the Brotherhood knew that the man who had been tracking him down sat there, helpless and unarmed, within a yard of vengeance? And if this was so, then the great adventure was over, almost before it had begun. And yet it seemed impossible that Garcia should know, indeed, how could he, when the gold disc and the mask had only passed into Wendover’s possession half-an-hour ago? He bent over the table with assumed indifference, yet with every muscle tense and rigid, and with every fibre of his being ready for the fray.
“Open it,” the man with the orange hair said. The President shook his head, and, as he did so, Wendover knew that the crisis was passed.
“Not to-night,” the leader replied. “That is not the wish of the man whom we regard as our head. My instructions are that this envelope should be deposited in the safe, behind those locked doors, for another twelve months.”
Wendover was breathing freely now, he breathed more freely still as he saw Garcia place the envelope in the safe.
“Come, comrades,” he said, “let us go through the form of proving our right to be here.”
So saying, he took from his pocket the section of his own gold disc, and the other men immediately followed his example. Wendover’s precious fragment lay on the table, almost as soon as the rest. No sooner were they displayed than, from the interior of the safe, Garcia produced their corresponding halves. Then he lifted the discs, one by one, and gravely proceeded to fit them to the sections that he had taken from the safe, so that, presently, what appeared to be six complete coins lay before him. This being done, he handed back to each man his token of identity with the air of one who is thoroughly satisfied with his task.
“Before I close the safe for another year,” he said, “before I set the combination which bars that lock for another twelve months, in such a way that it cannot open in the meantime, I wish to ask the usual questions. Is there any member of the Brotherhood present who is in need of funds to complete the peculiar task upon which he is engaged? We have one or two big operations in progress, and it may be that all of you are fettered by the need of money.”
“I am, for one,” the tall man with the black moustache said. “I need a thousand pounds. That strike in the Westphalian coalfields has not been quite as successful as I anticipated, and further funds are needed.”
“Is it your wish, brothers,” Garcia asked, “that our friend should have this money? Nikolo Petroff, I think.”
The tall man bowed gravely. No hands were upraised in opposition, and the money and notes were handed over to the tall man, who placed them in his pocket. Then another, who was spoken of as Leon de Vince, proffered a suggestion, and he, in his turn, was duly accommodated. Wendover made a careful note of these names for future use. Then, nothing more being asked for, the leader commenced to arrange the numbers on the lock. A moment later the door of the safe would be closed again and, for a further twelve months, the treasure lying there would be safe from further depredations. But in twelve months much can happen. If fortune were on his side, Wendover might return a year hence, and restore the money to its rightful owner. As he thought of this, his spirit rose.
As if on the spur of the moment. Garcia turned to Paul and spoke. There was a sneer in his voice, and a glitter in his eyes, a hard and cruel gleam.
“Have you no request to make?” he demanded. “Is your particular task going so well that you have no occasion to make a call upon our common fund?”
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