s if they had been used,
not to inspire terror, but because they were at hand and convenient for
the purpose. In the shadow, ranged in a semicircle, were nine figures,
all motionless, all masked, and cloaked in black. They sat, another
incongruity, on plain wooden chairs. But in spite of that they were
figures of dread. The one who had brought her made the tenth.

Still the silence, broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling
into a tin pail.

Had she not known the past record of the men before her, the rather
opera bouffe setting with which they chose to surround themselves might
have aroused her scorn. But Olga Loschek knew too much. She guessed
shrewdly that, with the class of men with whom they dealt, it was not
enough that their name spelled terror. They must visualize it. They had
taken their cue from that very church, indeed, beneath which they hid.
The church, with its shrines and images, appealed to the eye. They, too,
appealed to the eye. Their masks, the carefully constructed and upheld
mystery of their identity, the trappings of death about them--it was
skillfully done.

Not that she was thinking consecutively just then. It was a mental
flash, even as her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness made out the
white numeral, from one to ten, on the front of each shroud-like cloak.

Still no one spoke. The Countess faced them.

Only her eyes showed her nervousness; she stood haughtily, her head held
high. But like most women, she could not endure silence for long, at
least the silence of shrouded figures and intent eyes.

"Now that I am here," she demanded, "may I ask why I have been
summoned?"

It was Number Seven who replied. It was Number Seven who, during the
hour that followed, spoke for the others. None moved, or but slightly.
There was no putting together of heads, no consulting. Evidently all had
been carefully prearranged.

"Look on the table, Countess. You will find there some papers you will
perhaps recognize."

She took a step toward the table and glanced down. The code-book lay
there. Also the letter she had sent by Peter Niburg. She made no effort
to disclaim them.

"I recognize them," she said clearly.

"You acknowledge, then, that they are yours?"

"I acknowledge nothing."

"They bear certain indications, madame."

"Possibly."

"Do you realize what will happen, madame, if these papers are turned
over to the authorities?"

She shrugged her shoulders. And now Number Sev