"And where do you come in?" questioned Farquhar. Moreno smiled. "It is as much curiosity as anything. The anarchists know that Rossett knows a good deal about them. Now, I want to find out how they are going to act when Rossett finds himself in Madrid, you see." "And you'll find it out before you are many hours older, cunning old devil that you are," said Farquhar, with an appreciative smile. "Well, let me know how you get on. Isobel Clandon is my cousin, and I can't help feeling interested in all this, especially if what you suggest about her and Rossett is true." When Moreno had left, the ambitious young barrister sat thinking deeply. He had loved his cousin for years, not perhaps with any great overmastering passion, but with that steady affection which might be expected from a man of his grave and cautious temperament. He was prepared to speak when the time was ripe, when his prospects and circumstances permitted him to offer Isobel a proper home. Moreno's words troubled him, and he had an uneasy suspicion that the Spaniard, with his swift intelligence, had accurately gauged the situation. The fruit which might have been his for the mere stretching out of the hand--had it been plucked by somebody more impetuous, more energetic than himself? This he must learn as soon as possible. Moreno's words had suddenly roused him to action. He was now blaming in his mind, those very traits on which he had been wont to pride himself, his scrupulousness, his excessive caution. He had always thought that Isobel liked him, that she would not be reluctant to entertain his advances, when he had judged the time was right to make them. And, of course, he had been a fool. He had not looked at the position from the girl's point of view. A girl, however much she may be inclined towards a man, is not disposed to wait indefinitely while he is making up his mind, nicely balancing pros and cons. He had never thought of anybody else for his wife. But he had reckoned too surely on the fact that she was waiting quietly in that little home at Eastbourne, till he chose to make love to her. He wired to General Clandon the next morning, explaining that he had a couple of days' leisure; might he run down? There came back the cordial reply, "Come at once. Delighted." Truth to tell, the General was both proud and fond of his nephew, the son of his favourite sister. He might have thought at times that the young man was a little too grave and serious for his years, he had always seemed singularly free from the follies of youth. But he had the greatest respect for his sterling qualities, for his high principles and character. Father and daughter met him at the station. Isobel liked him very much. There was a time when liking might have been converted into a warmer feeling. But, speaking in vulgar parlance, Maurice had failed through his over-scrupulousness, his too nice weighing of possibilities and probabilities, to strike while the iron was hot.