"You're not ill," she adjured her pale reflection. "It's all
imagination. Emile says all these complaints are. Any way, you're not
going to give in to it."
She shut both ears and eyes as she sped through the restless city that
even at this hour was astir with life.
She was only glad that there was no moon. Roused for once out of her
naturally slow and indolent walk, she was soon in the poor quarter and
climbing the stairs to the third floor of a horrible little house, the
back of which looked out on the dark slums of the quarter of the
Parelelo, the breeding-place of revolutions; the district between the
Rambla and the Harbour.
The house was like the one that Emile had described when telling her of
the murdered woman, Felise Rivaz.
The very air reeked of intrigue and hidden deeds.
She looked round first of all for Emile, but he was not there, and only
half the usual number of conspirators were assembled.
Vardri, who had left the Hippodrome the minute he had delivered his
message, was sitting on the end of the table swinging his feet and
whistling softly.
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