“The Woman of Gratz,” said Bartholomew, and in his eagerness he rose to his feet.
If one sought for the cause of friction between Starque and the ex-captain of Irregular Cavalry, here was the end of the search. The flame that came to the eyes of these two men as she entered the room told the story.
Starque, heavily made, animal man to his fingertips, rose to greet her, his face aglow.
“Madonna,” he murmured, and kissed her hand.
She was dressed well enough, with a rich sable coat that fitted tightly to her sinuous figure, and a fur toque upon her beautiful head.
She held a gloved hand toward Bartholomew and smiled.
Bartholomew, like his rival, had a way with women; but it was a gentle way, overladened with Western conventions and hedged about with set proprieties. That he was a contemptible villain according to our conceptions is true, but he had received a rudimentary training in the world of gentlemen. He had moved amongst men who took their hats off to their women-kind, and who controlled their actions by a nebulous code. Yet he behaved with greater extravagance than did Starque, for he held her hand in his, looking into her eyes, whilst Starque fidgeted impatiently.
“Comrade,” at last he said testily, “we will postpone our talk with our little Maria. It would be bad for her to think that she is holding us from our work—and there are the Four—”
He saw her shiver.
“The Four?” she repeated. “Then they have written to you, also?”
Starque brought his fist with a crash down on the table.
“You—you! They have dared threaten you? By Heaven—”
“Yes,” she went on, and it seemed that her rich sweet voice grew a little husky; “they have threatened—me.”
She loosened the furs at her throat as though the room had suddenly become hot and the atmosphere unbreathable.
The torrent of words that came tumbling to the lips of Starque was arrested by the look in her face.
“It isn’t death that I fear,” she went on slowly; “indeed, I scarcely know what I fear.”
Bartholomew, superficial and untouched by the tragic mystery of her voice, broke in upon their silence. For silenced they were by the girl’s distress.
“With such men as we about, why need you notice the theatrical play of these Four Just Men?” he asked, with a laugh; then he remembered the two little beans and became suddenly silent with the rest.
So complete and inexplicable was the chill that had come to them with the pronouncement of the name of their enemy, and so absolutely did the spectacle of the Woman of Gratz on the verge of tears move them, that they heard then what none had heard before—the ticking of the clock.
It was the habit of many years that carried Bartholomew’s hand to his pocket, mechanically he drew out his watch, and automatically he cast his eyes about the room for the clock wherewith to check the time.
It was one of those incongruous pieces of commonplace that intrude upon tragedy, but it loosened the tongues of the council, and they all spoke together.
It was Starque who gathered the girl’s trembling hands between his plump palms.
“Maria, Maria,” he chided softly, “this is folly. What! the Woman of Gratz who defied all Russia—who stood before Mirtowsky and bade him defiance—what is it?”
The last words were sharp and angry and were directed to Bartholomew.
For the second time that night the Englishman’s face was white, and he stood clutching the edge of the table with staring eyes and with his lower jaw drooping.
“God, man!” cried Starque, seizing him by the arm, “what is it—speak—you are frightening her!”
“The clock!” gasped Bartholomew in a hollow voice, “where—where is the clock?”
His staring eyes wandered helplessly from side to side.
“Listen,” he whispered, and they held their breath.
Very plainly indeed did they hear the “tick—tick—tick.”
“It is under the table,” muttered François.
Starque seized the cloth and lifted it. Underneath, in the shadow, he saw the black box and heard the ominous whir of clockwork.
“Out!” he roared and sprang to the door.
It was locked and from the outside.
Again and again he flung his huge bulk against the door, but the men who pressed round him, whimpering and slobbering in their pitiable fright, crowded about him and gave him no room.
With his strong arms he threw them aside left and right; then leapt at the door, bringing all his weight and strength to bear, and the door crashed open.
Alone of the party the Woman of Gratz preserved her calm. She stood by the table, her foot almost touching the accursed machine, and she felt the faint vibrations of its working. Then Starque caught her up in his arms and through the narrow passage he half led, half carried her, till they reached the street in safety.
The passing pedestrians saw the dishevelled group, and, scenting trouble, gathered about them.
“What was it? What was it?” whispered François, but Starque pushed him aside with a snarl.
A taxi was passing and he called it, and lifting the girl inside, he shouted directions and sprang in after her.
As the taxi whirled away, the bewildered Council looked from one to the other.
They had left the door of the house wide open and in the hall a flickering gas-jet gyrated wildly.
“Get away from here,” said Bartholomew beneath his breath.
“But the papers—the records,” said the other wringing his hands.
Bartholomew thought quickly.
The records were such as could not be left lying about with impunity. For all he knew these madmen had implicated him in their infernal writings. He was not without courage, but it needed all he possessed to re-enter the room where a little machine in a black box ticked mysteriously.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“On the table,” almost whispered the other. “Mon Dieu! what disaster!” The Englishman made up his mind.
He sprang up the three steps into the hall. Two paces brought him to the door, another stride to the table. He heard the “tick” of the machine, he gave one glance to the
