of the floor, though conscious of shifting figures in the gloom,
of whispered stir and preparation.

For myself I had no great fear. The thing was so remote, and in itself
so certain, sure, inexorable; a play of issues that held no part for a
trifler like me. I was only a supernumerary, who had blundered on at the
climax; a spectator who, having bought a stage seat, finds himself
hustled into the riot. I had "come asking"; and it was hard for me to
take our picturesque knave and his plottings and struttings quite
seriously.

But how of Robert Matcham? The case was very different with him. When I
glanced at his face I knew the possibilities for that harried giant to
be just exactly as serious as life and death.

Throughout the long run he had spoken only once; and of all the comments
he might have made:

"It was wrong of me to let you in for this," he had said very quietly;
one of those phrases that throw a lightning glint on a whole nature.

He would yield no more. Circumstance could prod him no further. I swear
the fellow was volcanic to the touch. Heaven help the first brigand
within reach if ever they loosed him again!...

A door opened behind us and closed again with a heavy jar, and quickly
we were aware of a new presence. The waiting hush took an electric
quality, a tension. Some one was standing there, across; and I peered
nervously, for this could only be the chief of the band, the "head
devil," on whose will or whim we must suppose ourselves to hang. I
scarcely know what I expected; what image I had formed of that
mysterious Number One, who had put such strange events in motion.
Something very alarming and formidable, at least, and certainly very far
detached from the sort of greeting that reached us now. Its words came
rippling like notes of music:

"I am sure there must be some meestake. It could not be these who rafuse
a kindness to a stranger! Pedro--these are zaintlemen! Pedro--Pedro--you
shall answer to me! Oh, stupid-head--always to bungle some more!"

I despair of conveying that trick of speech, subtly exotic--like the
tang in some rare wine. But the voice! Each has heard such a voice for
himself, once or twice perhaps, and felt his blood leap to answer,
singing. It was a woman's voice, mellow-throated as a bird's.

Robert Matcham raised his head at the first sound of it; but still we
could see nothing to distinguish the speaker--only a vague apparition,
nebulous, tall and slim. She moved befo