Whither Thou Goest. Le Queux William

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      Whither Thou Goest

      Preface.

      What This Story is About

      The Earl of Saxham was vastly annoyed when his son, Guy, fell in love with a “penniless nobody,” and announced that he would marry her against all opposition. He determined to separate the lovers; to which end he persuaded an influential friend in the Foreign Office to secure an appointment for Guy in the Embassy at Madrid. He little knew that he was sending his son into the centre of a hotbed of anarchism, that Guy’s footsteps were to be dogged by a vindictive and revengeful woman, that his life was to hold many a thrilling moment and not a few narrow escapes.

      Mr Le Queux has written a thrilling story of anarchism and its deadly secret plotting, a story through which there runs, nevertheless, a rich vein of romance.

      Prologue

      A hot July evening on the calm Biscayan coast of Spain.

      The sun had disappeared like a globe of molten metal into the sapphire sea, and now, in the breathless blood-red afterglow which tinged the unruffled glassy waters away to the Atlantic, the whole populace of the peaceful old-world town of Fonterrabia had come forth from their houses to breathe again after the intense heat and burden of the blazing day.

      Dusty green sun-shutters were being opened everywhere, while upon the golden beach the clear waters hardly rippled, for the summer tide was upon the turn. Across the bay lay a cluster of gaily-painted sardine boats in reds and greens, awaiting a breeze, and along the sea-front, so fiercely swept in winter, stood the quaint mediaeval houses, crumbling and sun-blanched, with their wide overhanging roofs and many balconies, palpitating with the heat, now rapidly receding. It had been a scorching day in Spain.

      In the stunted tamarisks which sprang, dust-covered and twisted, from the yellow, shifting sands the grasshoppers still chirped merrily, though it was sunset, and from the sun-blanched sea-front came of a sudden the high, tuneful twanging of a mandoline, and a man’s tenor voice singing that ancient love-song which one hears everywhere in the wine lands of the Guipuzcoa.

      Pasé cantivo amor entus prisones.

      From the houses came forth the many mixed odours of the evening cena, the appetising smell of rich ollas, mostly flavoured with garlic, be it said, while from the shops which sold eatables there emanated that faint and peculiar perfume which only those who have lived in hot climates can know, and can justly appreciate.

      Of a sudden the ancient bells of Santa Gadea, the old incense-laden, Gothic church above the town, clanged forth again, as they had done so many times a day through centuries, summoning the good people of Fonterrabia to kneel before the high dark altar, with those long candles and the wonderful brass chandelier above.

      Now as the bells jangled forth an observer might, perhaps, have noticed two men meet, as though entirely by accident, close to that obscure little café “The Concha,” which faces the sea.

      On the pavement before the little place sat several men in their blue bérets, drinking wine and gossiping as all Spaniards must do.

      The pair who had met were of quite different stamp.

      One, who was about forty, of a refined but rather parvenu type, was dressed in a well-cut suit of thin, dark grey material, and wore a straw hat much ripened by the sun. He was idly smoking a long valenciano, and betrayed surprise, though feigned, at the meeting. The other was a typical fisherman in the blue blouse and blue béret, the national headdress of all the Basque people. He still wore his heavy sea-boots, in which, however, he walked jauntily, for his age was not more than thirty, and his dark, handsome countenance was bright, enthusiastic, and well bronzed.

      On meeting, the man in the sun-ripened straw hat, and of much superior class, turned quickly and walked beside him.

      As he did so a tall Jesuit priest, a man with a swarthy, sinister face and a long, rather shabby cassock – Father Gonzalo by name – chanced to pass.

      Carlos Somoza, the fisherman, saluted him reverently, but beneath his breath he exclaimed in Spanish:

      “May the Holy Madonna curse him for ever!”

      “Why?” inquired the man in grey, whose name was Garcia Zorrilta, a native of Toledo, who had come in secret from Madrid in order to meet his fisherman friend.

      “Because he may recognise you. There may be a hitch.”

      “Bah! There will be no hitch. There cannot be. You people here in the country are so often faint-hearted. We in the capital are not. All goes well, and success must be ours. It is but a simple matter of waiting – waiting in patience.”

      “Yes – but Father Gonzalo is a man whom I do not like.”

      “Why? He looks really quite harmless. Who is he?”

      “Nobody exactly knows,” was the fisherman’s reply, as they turned up the narrow Calle Mayor, that old-world street of high, handsome houses, mostly adorned with the crumbling coats-of-arms of the ancient proprietors, and with balconies of wrought iron, and wide, projecting roofs across the narrow footway. “He has been here for about four months, yet he is not attached to Santa Gadea. Sometimes he visits the sick, and all speak well of him. But both Cardona and Cienfuegos agree with my suspicions that he is a Government agent, and that he is here to find out all he can.”

      His companion grunted.

      “Dios! If that is really so, then we must discover more about him,” he said. “I trust, however, you are wrong, for, as you say, he might recognise me again. And that would certainly be most awkward in my position – as Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre.”

      “Yes, Excellency, that is why I cursed him,” replied the intelligent fisherman, with a smile. “At our meeting last Thursday, we discussed whether Father Gonzalo should not meet with – well, meet with an accident.”

      “No, no!” replied the other quickly, raising his voice because at the moment a heavy cart, with its great wood disc wheels, drawn by two white bulls and laden with wine barrels, rumbled past them slowly over the cobbles. “Not here – that would never do, never! It would upset all our plans! We must be cautious —always cautious. Watch him, and report to me in the usual way – a letter to the Poste Restante in Madrid. I will at once inquire all about this mysterious Father, and the reason he has come to Fonterrabia. He may, as you suspect, be an agent of the Ministry in disguise.”

      “We are quite certain that he is.”

      “If so, he must not remain here,” declared the stranger decisively. “It would certainly be extremely dangerous for you, and for all your friends. The success of our coup depends upon entire secrecy. Your little circle here have ever been loyal and undaunted. There must be no betrayal, as there was, you recollect, in Barcelona before the war.”

      “Barcelona is a city, Fonterrabia is only a little town, and hence it should escape suspicion,” was the educated young fisherman’s remark. “Ours we know to be a just and honest cause, and we all, as sons of Spain, are each of us prepared willingly to sacrifice our lives if necessary.”

      “Well said, Carlos! Our gallant leader, Ferdinand Contraras, who has lately sacrificed most of his great fortune to secure the salvation of Spain, is aware of your loyalty,” Zorrilta assured him. “A little time ago I was with him at one of our secret sessions at Toledo, and he mentioned you, and your friends here – and praised you for your patriotism as a true son of Spain.”

      “But the Englishman! What of him?” asked Carlos, as, strolling slowly, they were approaching the great old church.

      “That Englishman? Oh, yes, I know. You have serious and perhaps foolish apprehensions in that direction,” was the reply of the Deputy-Governor of Navarre. “But, Carlos, you can rest assured that we shall have no real trouble from that quarter. He will die – as the others have done. And he will die very soon!”

      “You are quite certain of that?” asked the fisherman eagerly.

      “Quite. It is all arranged – an accident – a mystery – and nothing more,” laughed the man from Madrid.

      “The Englishman is our most serious