EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
that secured the door. Opening it quickly, he leaned out to voice a low signal.
Instantly the denser shadows beneath the shadowy trees moved and were resolved into the figures of men. Scurrying like vermin, they hurried through the doorway and into the home of Septimus Favonius, and into the anteroom off the vestibule the son of Tabernarius hustled them. Then he closed both doors and waited.
Presently the slave returned. “The daughter of Septimus Favonius recalls having ordered no goods from Tabernarius,” he said, “nor does she feel in any mood to inspect fabrics this night. Return them to your father and tell him that when the daughter of Septimus Favonius wishes to purchase she will come herself to his shop.”
Now this was not what the son of Tabernarius desired and he racked his crafty brain for another plan, though to the slave he appeared but a stupid youth, staring at the floor in too much embarrassment even to take his departure.
“Come,” said the slave, approaching the door and laying hold of the bolt, “you must be going.”
“Wait,” whispered the youth. “I have a message for Favonia. I did not wish anyone to know it and for that reason I spoke of bringing fabrics as an excuse.”
“Where is the message and from whom?” demanded the slave, suspiciously.
“It is for her ears only. Tell her this and she will know from whom it is.”
The slave hesitated.
“Fetch her here,” said the youth. “It will be better that no other member of the household sees me.”
The slave shook his head. “I will tell her,” he said, for he knew that Mallius Lepus and Erich von Harben had escaped from the Colosseum and he guessed that the message might be from one of these. As he hastened back to his mistress the son of Tabernarius smiled, for though he knew not enough of Favonia to know from whom she might reasonably expect a secret message, yet he knew there were few young women who might not, at least hopefully, expect a clandestine communication. He had not long to wait before the slave
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