The walls of the Hippodrome were no longer adorned with gaudy posters whereon flared a travestied portrait of "The beautiful English equestrienne." No longer for Arithelli were showered roses, the tribute of head-lines in the weekly journals, and the welcome of many voices. She had been absent for nearly a month, therefore she might as well have been dead as far as the Spanish public was concerned.

The Manager had known this and had been careful to provide his patrons with a new toy, who had come, even as Arithelli herself, from Paris. This was a female contortionist with a serpent's grace, and a serpent's flat head, and wicked slit eyes. She had proved a success, so he could afford to exult, and Estelle dangled in triumph a new pair of diamond earrings. He had lost nothing and the once famous Arithelli, the "She-wolf" who had been mad enough to defy him, was now simply one of the crowd. Her name did not appear on the programme. She was not even Madame Mignonne now, but merely a unit among the many other women who were grouped in the grand spectacle, or a rider in a procession with twenty others. He had reduced her salary to a third of what it had been formerly, and every Saturday she was required to assist with the correspondence and weekly accounts. If she did not like this arrangement, he explained, she could fight out the terms of her contract in the courts. Doubtless she had a great opinion of her own capabilities, but as she could see for herself her place had been easily filled. The world was large, and there were plenty of women—sacrÉ, too many!

As usual he was disappointed in the effect of his remarks. Whether her silence meant indifference or sheer stupidity he was never quite sure. As Arithelli had no vanity the loss of her position meant little to her.

The loss of a private dressing-room meant a great deal. It was a refined torture to her to be herded among the other women, with their noise and quarrelling and coarse jokes. She found changes too. Her friend the toothless lion had succumbed to old age, several of the helpers had been changed, and Vardri was no longer near at hand to lift her on to her horse and wait to help her dismount. Whenever he could get away from Vladimir and the newspaper office, he was among the spectators, and their thoughts and glances met across the wide arena's space. Emile did not come regularly now though he took care there was always someone sent to bring her home.

Since the night of the alarms in the Calle de Pescadores, the Brotherhood had decided in council that they must change their place of meeting, at any rate for a time, and that no part of the city itself could be considered safe for the purposes of a meeting place.

They must keep to the hut up in the mountains. This had been seldom used on account of the difficulty in getting there, and the waste of time involved by the distance. In all respects it was safer. If they were surprised it was not likely they would all be caught, for in the open there was always a chance of escape. The distance and lonely situation were all in their favour. In a small house in a narrow street they were like trapped animals.

The custom was to start at midnight on the outskirts of the town, collecting by degrees, and when they were well on their way the cavalcade joined together and formed into Indian file.

Some were on horseback and some on the more sure-footed mules.

Not one among the conspirators could ride with the exception of Vardri and Emile, and the knowledge of the art possessed by the latter was poor enough.

The steeds of the general company went at whatever pace they chose and in what direction they saw fit, and occasionally two or three got wedged together in some narrow place and there was an interlude of kicking and squealing.

Then "FatalitÉ" was called to the rescue as being the only one among them capable of managing horseflesh.

When not required in her office of peacemaker she was sent on in front as guide to the procession, dressed in her boy's disguise and astride the most vicious of the mules. These excursions meant less rest for her than ever for the party seldom returned till five o'clock in the morning.

Emile had told her that she must get her sleep up in the hut.

"You have two hours to yourself," he said. "You can't sleep up there?
Nonsense! Make up your mind to do it and then you will."

The building in question, which was more like an outhouse than anything else, she had christened, "The Black Hole of Calcutta." The upper part, which was approached by a ladder as a loft would be, was used as a meeting-room, while the ground floor became a temporary stable for the horses and mules, of which she was left in charge. Since the scene in that upper room in the Calle de Pescadores she had put herself outside all consideration; and Sobrenski now excluded her from all work other than the merest drudgery. Vardri was also kept under surveillance. It was felt by all that in some quarter treachery lurked as yet undiscovered, and every man suspected his comrades. There were indications that someone, hitherto a sworn ally of the Cause, had turned spy and sold certain information to the authorities.

Even Sobrenski's iron nerves were stretched to breaking point.

The rest tried to drown anxiety in absinthe, and all grew daily more morose and uncertain of temper.

The first sensation came in the shape of a rumour that Count Vladimir's companion, Pauline Souvaroff, had disappeared.

Only three people knew that she had vanished utterly and completely on the same day that she had received a communication from the leader. The note had been brought to her by Vladimir himself. He could guess at its contents, but Pauline had revealed nothing.

Two hours afterwards when he went on shore she was shut up in her cabin, and he had not interrupted her, thinking she was asleep. When he returned, and found her door unlocked, and her cabin empty, a suspicion of the truth occurred to him.

Everything was left in perfect order, but there was no letter, no word of explanation. He questioned the crew, and heard that she had been rowed to shore by two of them soon after he left. She had given the men orders not to wait, but to return at once to the yacht. For a week Vladimir hunted through street and slum. At the end of that time he knew that alive or dead he would never see Pauline Souvaroff again. The missive he had brought her from Sobrenski had probably meant a journey for her to one of the great centres of the movement—Amsterdam, Geneva, or perhaps even London.

Alphonse of Spain was now in England, having escaped two attempts upon his life in Paris, and in his own capital. His every moment would be watched and noted by the destroyers of monarchy. Probably she had been chosen to obtain information, because women made better spies than men, and their movements were not so likely to be noticed by the police. Many a high official whose name was on the list of those condemned to death by a revolutionary tribunal had been tracked from city to city by female agents.

Yet, if she had been sent on such an errand, what reason could she have had for going in secret, alone and without a word of farewell? He had supposed it impossible that she could have kept anything from him; of course there must eventually be separation. He had warned her of that. And when it came he had expected scenes, tears and a frantic appeal.

That she should vanish in silence was inconceivable. Perhaps she had not cared for him so much after all. In any case the episode had been a charming one, and to him no woman could ever have been more than an episode. He had shown her some of the many beautiful things and places of the world, and by her own words he had made her happy. Now their play time was over. He had his work and she hers. She had come into his life as a piece of driftwood floats to shore on the edge of a wave, and gone out of it as noiselessly.

Vladimir did not discuss his private affairs, so that among all the conspirators Emile alone knew, and it was Emile alone who guessed the truth.