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Updated: May 3, 2025
The piece of the letter she had missed, had been dropped in the stable up in the hills and found by Sobrenski. It was all her own fault, sheer rank carelessness. Emile had so often warned her against her fatal habit of leaving everything about. She never locked up anything, jewellery, clothes, money or papers.
Vardri strolled across to a rack, and took down an armful of saddles and stirrups. "I have," he answered laconically. "They'll be ready in five minutes." Sobrenski turned to the girl, and spoke to her in an undertone. "What are you wasting time for? See to your work." Vardri raised his head from the adjustment of a girth. "I'm doing Mademoiselle Arithelli's work.
A few words to Sobrenski, and the whole thing would be done. His sense of justice reminded him that he least of all people had a right to grudge her a few hours of happiness. If he obliterated himself he was only making her a deserved reparation for some of the things she had suffered.
"Be careful how you do your work, for if it is not well done others will do it for you." She could not answer; she shuddered at his touch; her hands went up and covered her face. Sobrenski turned and mounted the worn rungs of the narrow ladder with a lithe, active step. He was quite sure of her now. She would not fail to carry out his will. "Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."
While they talked and lingered, Sobrenski was descending the rickety ladder that served as a staircase. He had noticed Vardri's exit from the room, as he noticed everything else. All the other men had been too excited to care whether one more or less was there or not. In the hot argument that raged in the upper room, the absence of one of the members of the Brotherhood was apparently forgotten.
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