The _velo_, or piece of drapery worn on ordinary
occasions instead of the mantilla, hung down her back in company with
the long plait of hair, which had come untwisted at the ends. Her face
was strained and haggard, and the tense attitude spoke of tortured
nerves.
She was still struggling for breath, and appeared almost unable to
speak, but Emile was not minded to allow her much time for recovery.
Patience was not numbered among such virtues as he possessed.
"_Tiens_!" he began. "What is it now, Fatalite? You look as if you
had been having adventures. Have you been getting into mischief? And
where have you been?"
"In the Calle de Pescadores out at Barcelonetta. Sobrenski sent me
with a message to you. The place is being watched. If they see you go
in you may be arrested. The others got to hear about the spies, and
went early. They are going to stay there all night because it isn't
safe to leave." Her tone was that of one who repeats a well-learned
lesson.
Emile shrugged. "Spies? So that's it! There was a man just now in
the _cafe_ who looked like it.
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