She was just deciding that it must be at least six o’clock in the morning when a welcome sound come to her ears, the sound of the unlocking of a door.
In another minute the electric light was switched on. The hum of voices, which had come to her for a minute or two, rather like the far-off roar of sea waves, ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and Bundle heard the sound of a bolt being shot. Clearly someone had come in from the gaming room next door, and she paid tribute to the thoroughness with which the communicating door had been rendered soundproof.
In another minute the intruder came into her line of vision—a line of vision that was necessarily somewhat incomplete but which yet answered its purpose. A tall man, broad-shouldered and powerful looking, with a long black beard, Bundle remembered having seen him sitting at one of the baccarat tables on the preceding night.
This, then, was Alfred’s mysterious Russian gentleman, the proprietor of the club, the sinister Mr. Mosgorovsky. Bundle’s heart beat faster with excitement. So little did she resemble her father that at this minute she fairly gloried in the extreme discomfort of her position.
The Russian remained for some minutes standing by the table, stroking his beard. Then he drew a watch from his pocket and glanced at the time. Nodding his head as though satisfied, he again thrust his hand into his pocket and, pulling out something that Bundle could not see, he moved out of the line of vision.
When he reappeared she could hardly help giving a gasp of surprise.
His face was now covered by a mask—but hardly a mask in the conventional sense. It was not shaped to the face. It was a mere piece of material hanging in front of the features like a curtain in which two slits were pierced for the eyes. In shape it was round and on it was the representation of a clock face, with the hands pointing to six o’clock.
“The Seven Dials!” said Bundle to herself.
And at that minute there came a new sound—seven muffled taps.
Mosgorovsky strode across to where Bundle knew was the other cupboard door. She heard a sharp click, and then the sound of greetings in a foreign tongue.
Presently she had a view of the newcomers.
They also wore clock masks, but in their case the hands were in a different position—four o’clock and five o’clock respectively. Both men were in evening dress—but with a difference. One was an elegant, slender young man wearing evening clothes of exquisite cut. The grace with which he moved was foreign rather than English. The other man could be better described as wiry and lean. His clothes fitted him sufficiently well, but no more, and Bundle guessed at his nationality even before she heard his voice.
“I reckon we’re the first to arrive at this little meeting.”
A full pleasant voice with a slight American drawl, and an inflection of Irish behind it.
The elegant young man said in good, but slightly stilted English:
“I had much difficulty in getting away tonight. These things do not always arrange themselves fortunately. I am not, like No 4 here, my own master.”
Bundle tried to guess at his nationality. Until he spoke, she had thought he might be French, but the accent was not a French one. He might possibly, she thought, be an Austrian, or a Hungarian, or even a Russian.
The American moved to the other side of the table, and Bundle heard a chair being pulled out.
“One o’clock’s being a great success,” he said. “I congratulate you on taking the risk.”
Five o’clock shrugged his shoulders.
“Unless one takes risks—” He left the sentence unfinished.
Again seven taps sounded and Mosgorovsky moved across to the secret door.
She failed to catch anything definite for some moments since the whole company were out of sight, but presently she heard the bearded Russian’s voice upraised.
“Shall we begin proceedings?”
He himself came round the table and took the seat next to the armchair at the top. Sitting thus, he was directly facing Bundle’s cupboard. The elegant five o’clock took the place next to him. The third chair that side was out of Bundle’s sight, but the American, No 4, moved into her line of vision for a moment or two before he sat down.
On the near side of the table also, only two chairs were visible, and as she watched a hand turned the second—really the middle chair—down. And then with a swift movement, one of the newcomers brushed past the cupboard and took the chair opposite Mosgorovsky. Whoever sat there had, of course, their back directly turned to Bundle—and it was at that back that Bundle was staring with a good deal of interest, for it was the back of a singularly beautiful woman very much décolleté.
It was she who spoke first. Her voice was musical, foreign—with a deep seductive note in it. She was glancing towards the empty chair at the head of the table.
“So we are not to see No 7 tonight?” she said. “Tell me, my friends, shall we ever see him?”
“That’s darned good,” said the American. “Darned good! As for seven o’clock—I’m beginning to believe there is no such person.”
“I should not advise you to think that, my friend,” said the Russian pleasantly.
There was a silence—rather an uncomfortable silence, Bundle felt.
She was still staring as though fascinated at the beautiful back in front of her. There was a tiny black mole just below the right shoulder blade that enhanced the whiteness of the skin. Bundle felt that at last the term “beautiful adventuress,” so often read, had a real meaning for her. She was quite certain that this woman had a beautiful face—a dark Slavonic face with passionate eyes.
She was recalled from her imagining by the voice of the Russian, who seemed to act as master of ceremonies.
“Shall we get on with our business? First to our absent comrade! No 2!”
He made a curious gesture with his hand towards the turned down chair next to the woman, which everyone present imitated, turning to the chair as they did so.
“I wish No 2 were with us tonight,” he continued. “There are many things to be done. Unsuspected difficulties have arisen.”
“Have you had his report?” It was the American who spoke.
“As yet—I have nothing from him.” There was a pause. “I cannot understand it.”
“You think it may have—gone astray?”
“That is—a possibility.”
“In other words,” said five o’clock softly, “there is—danger.”
He spoke the word delicately—and yet with relish.
The Russian nodded emphatically.
“Yes—there’s danger. Too much is getting known about us—about this place. I know of several people who suspect.” He added coldly: ?
??They must be silenced.”
Bundle felt a little cold shiver pass down her spine. If she were to be found, would she be silenced? She was recalled suddenly to attention by a word.
“So nothing has come to light about Chimneys?”
Mosgorovsky shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Suddenly No 5 leant forward.
“I agree with Anna; where is our president—No 7? He who called us into being. Why do we never see him?”
“No 7,” said the Russian, “has his own ways of working.”
“So you always say.”
“I will say no more,” said Mosgorovsky. “I pity the man—or woman—who comes up against him.”
There was an awkward silence.
“We must get on with our business,” said Mosgorovsky quietly. “No 3, you have the plans of Wyvern Abbey?”
Bundle strained her ears. So far she had neither caught a glimpse of No 3, nor had she heard his voice. She heard it now and recognized it as unmistakable. Low, pleasant, indistinct—the voice of a well-bred Englishman.
“I’ve got them here, sir.”
Some papers were shoved across the table. Everyone bent forward. Presently Mosgorovsky raised his head again.
“And the list of guests?”
“Here.”
The Russian read them.
“Sir Stanley Digby. Mr. Terence O’Rourke. Sir Oswald and Lady Coote. Mr. Bateman. Countess Anna Radzky. Mrs. Macatta. Mr. James Thesiger—” He paused and then asked sharply:
“Who is Mr. James Thesiger?”
The American laughed.
“I guess you needn’t worry any about him. The usual complete young ass.”
The Russian continued reading.
“Herr Eberhard and Mr. Eversleigh. That completes the list.”
“Does it?” said Bundle silently. “What about that sweet girl, Lady Eileen Brent?”
“Yes, there seems nothing to worry about there,” said Mosgorovsky. He looked across the table. “I suppose there’s no doubt whatever about the value of Eberhard’s invention?”
Three o’clock made a laconic British reply.
“None whatever.”