d in a corner. Arithelli stood
resting one hand on the round polished table in the centre of the
apartment. Her dark blue dress was torn in two places, and smeared
with patches of dust. The _velo_, or piece of drapery worn on ordinary
occasions instead of the mantilla, hung down her back in company with
the long plait of hair, which had come untwisted at the ends. Her face
was strained and haggard, and the tense attitude spoke of tortured
nerves.

She was still struggling for breath, and appeared almost unable to
speak, but Emile was not minded to allow her much time for recovery.

Patience was not numbered among such virtues as he possessed.

"_Tiens_!" he began. "What is it now, Fatalite? You look as if you
had been having adventures. Have you been getting into mischief? And
where have you been?"

"In the Calle de Pescadores out at Barcelonetta. Sobrenski sent me
with a message to you. The place is being watched. If they see you go
in you may be arrested. The others got to hear about the spies, and
went early. They are going to stay there all night because it isn't
safe to leave." Her tone was that of one who repeats a well-learned
lesson.

Emile shrugged. "Spies? So that's it! There was a man just now in
the _cafe_ who looked like it. Probably he is waiting to go outside
now to 'shadow' me. He may wait till--! And how did you get out?"

"They let me down from a window at the back of the house. I got on to
the quay and came here by the long way and through the Rambla." There
was a pause, and then she said in the same mechanical voice, "Sobrenski
said I was to tell you not to come. It isn't safe."

Emile did not answer. He could see that she was trembling violently
and on the verge of an hysterical crisis. He rather hoped she would
break down. It would seem more natural. Women were privileged to cry
and scream, not that it was possible to imagine her screaming. He
dragged forward a chair from the immaculate row against the wall.

As he did so he noticed that she kept her left hand behind her back as
if to conceal something.

"Sit down," he ordered. "What's the matter with your hand? Are you
hurt?"

The girl retreated before him.

"No!" she answered defiantly.

But Emile's quick eyes had seen a crumpled handkerchief flecked with
red stains.

"Don't tell lies, Fatalite!" he said sharply. "Give me your hand at
once."

Arithelli obeyed, holding it out palm upwards.

Emile