mile
had once likened a certain group of the conspirators to a pack of court
cards, saying that they were alternately red and black.

Sobrenski's hair and small peaked beard were of a curiously unpleasant
colour, and his thin lips, pointed teeth and long sloping jaw gave him
a wolfish appearance. His eyes, deep-set and narrow, were too close
together to satisfy a student of Lavater as to his capacity for
truthfulness. The forehead alone was good, and showed reasoning and
intellect. He was about fifty, and like all fair men looked less than
his age. He was better dressed, and altogether more careful of his
appearance than most of the other men, though he spent nothing on
luxuries and never touched the _absinthe_, to which most of them were
addicted. The sole luxuries in which he indulged were Work and Power.

"Probably you have heard a great deal of talk about spies lately," he
began, addressing Arithelli in French. "For some time I have suspected
one of our own number of treachery. However, one cannot condemn
without proofs. For these I have been waiting and they have now come
into my hands. I'm perfectly satisfied that the man I have all along
suspected is a traitor, and there is no need to delay action any
longer. I suppose Poleski has informed you of how we treat those who
are unwise enough to betray us?"

"Yes."

She was on her guard now, and stood upright, all her languor gone. Why
could he not say what he meant at once? She wondered why he had taken
the trouble to seek for proofs of anyone's guilt. Enough for a man of
his type to find an obstruction in his path. He would need no
authority but his own for removing it. She hated him all the more for
his parade of justice. It had not occurred to her that his speech was
a prelude to anything that concerned Vardri. If anyone was implied she
imagined it was herself. These men were never happy unless they were
suspecting evil of someone. The Anarchist leader found in her
incomprehension merely another sign of feminine stupidity. Her outward
air of indifference was as irritating to him as it had been to the
Hippodrome Manager. Sobrenski's blood had never stirred for any woman,
however charming, and Arithelli's type of looks was repulsive to him.
He loathed her thinness and pallor, her silence and immobility of
expression. He vowed inwardly that she should look less indifferent
before he had finished with her.

"You do not appear to have the lea