ch of
each other as possible. It was as well that Vardri should become
thoroughly infatuated, as then he would be certain to take some step
that would bring things to a crisis. They would be sure to try to
escape out of the country and hide themselves somewhere. They would
not be the first people who had tried that sort of thing before.

In the course of his life he had known others who had flung the Cause
and their vows to the winds from fear or passion and tried to hide
themselves under some disguise.

If they happened to be clever and have plenty of money their escape had
been fairly easy, and they had even been safe for perhaps a year or so.
Then just as they had begun to feel secure and had grown careless, the
vengeance of their own particular circle had overtaken them. There had
been accounts in the newspapers of a mysterious tragedy to which no
motive could be assigned, and for which no one could be brought to
justice, and that was all.

They were all monotonously alike, these affairs!

Sobrenski had said little to anyone else of his suspicions.

No need to declare anyone a traitor till it was proven. Such things
had a demoralising effect, and treachery was an infectious disease.

He descended the uneven rungs of the ladder, treading soft-footed as a
cat.

There was no noise of talking, so of course she was asleep. _Sacre_,
these lazy women! So she could not keep awake even for a lover!

The place was dark except for the glimmering light at the far end, and
he was obliged to feel his way to avoid the mules, who had an evil
trick of lashing out with their heels at anything in the vicinity.

At the foot of the steps he trod on a riding whip, which he recognised
as one belonging to Vardri.

In the dim circle of light cast by the smoky lamp there was only a
truss of hay disordered as if someone had lain upon it, and the
_manta_, and other things belonging to Arithelli.

There was one thing more, a sheet of paper covered closely with an
untidy scrawl.

The lynx eyes flashed, and Sobrenski bent eagerly forward.

Bad as the light was it had not taken him long to recognise the writing.

He held it close to the lamp, and smiled with satisfaction.

Nothing could be better from his point of view. In the first sentence
there was all, even more, than he wanted.

He smoothed it out between his pointed fingers, folded it, and bestowed
it carefully in an inside pocket.

It was just the kind of thing