"Of course," agreed Contraras smoothly. "That is our aim, our goal. But, under present conditions, we cannot practise it. I have, as you know, given the greater portion of my money to the cause. I have proved my sincerity. You will say I have left some for myself. True, but that is a wise policy. I live here in a certain sort of comfort. The position I keep up helps me to remain unsuspected. Nobody will think I am such a fool as to embrace anarchy. With these trappings, I can work better for the cause than if I hid myself in a back street in Soho." Lucue agreed. The chief had a long head. Lucue might envy, but he could not refrain from admiring him. Contraras broke away from the embarrassing topic of inequality in fortune. He spoke brusquely. "To return to this Englishman, Rossett. You think you can settle his hash?" Lucue nodded his big head. "It is settled, as I told you. I am working in conjunction with Alvedero and Zorrilta." "No two better men, they are staunch to the core, true sons of Spain," said Contraras approvingly. "One thing I would love to know, Lucue. Who supplied Rossett with his information?" "That I am also keen to know. There are always traitors in every camp. Perhaps some day I may find out." The two men talked till it was time for Lucue to catch his train. Contraras walked with him to the station. The chief wrung him by the hand. "If you ever find that traitor, no half measures, you understand." Lucue smiled a grim smile. "You can never accuse me of sentimentality. The penalty for every traitor is death." CHAPTER NINE. It had been a very hot August day. The old-world town of Fonterrabia had glowed in the torrid heat. With the sinking of the sun had come a sudden breath of comparative coolness. In a small room facing the sea, in the obscure little cafe "The Concho" there sat four people. They were respectively, Zorrilta, Jaime Alvedero, two of the most trusted lieutenants of the great Contraras-- Contraras who directed his world-wide campaign from the safe and sheltered precincts of Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead--Andres Moreno, journalist, trusted agent of the English Secret Service, ostensibly sworn anarchist, and lastly Violet Hargrave, now domiciled in Spain in the interests of the brotherhood, in England a somewhat well-known member of the semi-smart set. Moreno, as we know, was the son of a purely Spanish father and an English mother. Violet Hargrave was not greatly given to confidences. But the pair had been thrown much together. In spite of their mixed nationality, Spain was, to a great extent, a foreign land to them.