"Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't
let's go in for romantic self-sacrifice, like Don
Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth
century; and if it's my business to die, I have got
to do it."
"And if it's my business to live, I have got to
do that, I suppose. You're the lucky one,
Rivarez."
"Yes," the Gadfly assented laconically; "I was
always lucky."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and
then began to talk of business details. When
Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither
of them betrayed in face or manner that their
conversation had been in any way unusual.
After dinner they sat discussing plans and making
necessary arrangements till eleven o'clock, when
Martini rose and took his hat.
"I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of
mine, Rivarez. I think you will be less recognizable
in it than in your light suit. I want to
reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no
spies about before we start."
"Are you coming with me to the barrier?"
"Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in
case of anyone following you.
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