Moreno walked swiftly in the direction of a poor quarter of the town. He entered the humble abode of an inferior member of the Spanish Secret Service, where he doffed his working-man's garb and assumed his ordinary clothes. Later on, he saw Violet Hargrave, who was living close to him. Violet seemed very restless and perturbed. "This is the great night," she said by way of greeting. "I wonder if it will come off all right." "I should say there is every chance it will, unless Valerie's nerve fails her at the last moment," was Moreno's diplomatic answer. Mrs Hargrave gave a little shudder. Her pretty delicate face went a shade paler. "I cannot help feeling glad that I wasn't brought into it." Moreno bent upon her his keen glance. "And yet I should not put you down as a very tender-hearted person." "I don't know that I am, or should be under certain circumstances. But I have no grudge against these people, no particular wrong to avenge. Aren't you really glad you are out of it?" "I suppose, in a way, I am. Still, one feels a bit of a coward in letting Valerie take all the risk. It seems taking advantage of her bravery, to snatch at the chance of avoiding all danger for oneself." "I shall sit up very late, on the chance of hearing the news." "On the contrary, I think I shall go to bed early," said Moreno. "We shall hear nothing to-night in this distant quarter. And in the morning there will be the news, or no news at all. The Chief will let us know." The great Contraras, very upright and vigorous for his age, was shown into Mademoiselle Delmonte's sitting-room. She sprang up eagerly at his entrance. "I am so glad you have come. You are a little late, are you not? Luncheon will be served in a few moments." He could see she was very restless, and her cheeks were pale; there was a strange, almost unnatural brilliance in her dark eyes. Her voice was jerky. He took both her hands in his and pressed them tenderly. "You are not afraid, Valerie?" He was a fanatic, bold, brutal, and ruthless in his fanaticism, ready to sacrifice anything and everybody to the one absorbing idea. But at the sight of those pale cheeks, that quivering mouth, a momentary regret assailed him. He was a father, and this beautiful young woman was young enough to be his daughter. "We ought to have had a man for this job," he said, speaking a little hoarsely. "But you know you chose it yourself; you would not even have another associated with you." "I know." She tried to laugh lightly, but there was a quaver in the laugh. "I do not regret. I am not really afraid. But I suppose every soldier on his first battlefield has inward tremors that he cannot repress. I am a soldier of the Revolution, and to-night is my first battlefield." "And you feel those tremors, eh?"