A few minutes later I had knocked at the door of No. 6; an elderly woman-servant came to the door, and I saw suspicion in her eyes. Even as I inquired for her master I seized her, and so successfully that she hadn't an opportunity to utter a sound. I asked her no question, certain that she would mislead me, and, leaving one of the men with her in the hall, I hastened with the other two to the door leading into the garden, fully expecting to be attacked. We saw no one, heard no movement; either the professor had made a mistake or the conspirators considered themselves secure.
Quarles and the men came in like shadows, so silent were they, and it was evident that the professor had given his companions instructions, for two of them quickly went toward the hall.
"The cellars, Wigan," he whispered. "I think it will be the cellars."
The house was a basement one, similar to No. 14, and from a stone passage we found a door giving on to a dozen steep steps. It was pitch dark below.
"Don't show a light," said Quarles as he pushed me gently to go forward. I didn't know it at the time, but only one man came down with us.
At the foot of the stairs a passage ran to right and left, and to the left, which was toward the garden side of the house, a thin line of light showed below a door. On tiptoe, ready for emergencies, and hardly daring to breathe, we approached it, and with one accord the professor and I put our ears to the door. For a while no sound came, then a paper rustled and a foot scraped lightly on the stone floor. We had chanced to arrive during a pause in the conversation, for presently a voice, pitched low and monotonous in its tone, went on with an argument:
"I can find no excuse for you in that, Bertha Capracci. It is not admitted that your husband found death at the hands of his associates, but, were it so, it is no more than just. There are papers here proving beyond all doubt that he betrayed his friends."
"I have already said that is untrue," came the answer in a woman's voice.
Three men at least were sitting in judgment upon this woman, and it was evident they were not English.
"Besides, I am not one of you," said the woman.
"In name, no; in reality, yes; since your husband must have let you into many secrets," returned the first speaker. "Your woman's wit has outplayed our spies until recently, but, once discovered, you have been constantly watched. We cannot prove that the failure of some of our plans, costing the lives of good comrades, has been due to your interference, but we suspect it. We found you in constant communication with this English Jew, Jacob Morrison, who is in the pay of the Continental police. He is dead, a warning to others, killed in your house, and busy eyes are now looking for you as his murderess. You have hidden your identity so entirely that all inquiry must speedily be baffled, and so you have played into our hands. Your disappearance will hardly reach to a nine days' wonder, and who will think to look for your body under the flags of this cellar? Death is the sentence of the Society, and forthwith."