‘some keepeth silence knowing his time.’

‘who travels slowly may arrive too late,’ said the padre concha, with a pessimistic shake of the head, as the carrier’s cart in which he had come from toledo drew up in the plazuela de la cebada at madrid. the careful penury of many years had not, indeed, enabled the old priest to travel by the quick diligences, which had often passed him on the road with a cloud of dust and the rattle of six horses. the great journey had been accomplished in the humbler vehicles plying from town to town, that ran as often as not by night in order to save the horses.

the priest, like his fellow-travellers, was white with dust. dust covered his cloak so that its original hue of rusty black was quite lost. dust coated his face and nestled in the deep wrinkles of it. his eyebrows were lost to sight, and his lashes were like those of a miller.

as he stood in the street the dust arose in whirling columns and enveloped all who were abroad; for a gale was howling across the tableland, which the moors of old had named ‘majerit’—a draught of wind. the conductor, who, like a good and jovial conductor, had never refused an offer of refreshment on the road, was now muddled with drink and the heat of the sun. he was, in fact, engaged in a warm controversy with a passenger. so the padre found his own humble portmanteau, a thing of cardboard and canvas, and trudged up the calle de toledo, bearing the bag in one hand and his cloak in the other—a lean figure in the sunlight.

father concha had been in madrid before, though he rarely boasted of it, or indeed of any of his travels.

‘the wise man does not hang his knowledge on a hook,’ he was in the habit of saying.

that this knowledge was of that useful description which is usually designated as knowing one’s way about, soon became apparent; for the dusty traveller passed with unerring steps through the narrower streets that lie between the calle de toledo and the street of segovia. here dwell the humbler citizens of madrid, persons engaged in the small commerce of the market-place, for in the plazuela de la cebada a hundred yards away is held the corn market, which, indeed, renders the dust in this quarter particularly trying to the eyes. once or twice the priest was forced to stop at the corner of two streets and there do battle with the wind.

‘but it is a hurricane,’ he muttered; ‘a hurricane.’

with one hand he held his hat, with the other clung to his cloak and portmanteau.

‘but it will blow the dust from my poor old capa,’ he added, giving the cloak an additional shake.

he presently found himself in a street which, if narrower than its neighbours, smelt less pestiferous. the open drain that ran down the middle of it pursued its varied course with a quite respectable speed. in the middle of the street father concha paused and looked up, nodding as if to an old friend at the sight of a dingy piece of palm bound to the ironwork of a balcony on the second floor.

‘the time to wash off the dust,’ he muttered as he climbed the narrow stairs, ‘and then to work.’

an hour later he was afoot again in a quarter of the city which was less known to him—namely, in the calle preciados, where he sought a venta more or less suspected by the police. the wind had risen, and was now blowing with the force of a hurricane. it came from the north-west with a chill whistle which bespoke its birthplace among the peaks of the gaudarramas. the streets were deserted; the oil lamps swung on their chains at the street corners, casting weird shadows that swept over the face of the houses with uncanny irregularity. it was an evening for evil deeds, except that when nature is in an ill-humour human nature is mostly cowed, and those who have bad consciences cannot rid their minds of thoughts of the hereafter.

the priest found the house he sought, despite the darkness of the street and the absence of any from whom to elicit information. the venta was on the ground-floor, and above it towered storey after storey, built with the quaint fantasy of the middle ages, and surmounted by a deep, overhanging gabled roof. the house seemed to have two staircases of stone and two doors—one on each side of the venta. there is a spanish proverb which says that the rat which has only one hole is soon caught. perhaps the architect remembered this, and had built his house to suit his tenants. it was on the fifth floor of this tenement that father concha, instructed by heaven knows what priestly source of information, looked to meet with sebastian, the whilom bodyservant of the late colonel monreal of xeres.

it was known among a certain section of the royalists that this man had papers and perchance some information of value to dispose of, and more than one respectable, black-clad elbow had brushed the greasy walls of this staircase. sebastian, it was said, passed his time in drinking and smoking. the boasted gaieties of madrid had, it would appear, diminished to this sordid level of dissipation.

the man was, indeed, thus occupied when the old priest opened the door of his room.

‘yes,’ he answered in a thick voice, ‘i am sebastian of xeres, and no other; the man who knows more of the carlist plots than any other in madrid.’

‘can you read?’

‘no.’

‘then you know nothing,’ said the padre. ‘you have, however, a letter in a pink envelope which a friend of mine desires to possess. it is a letter of no importance, of no political value—a love letter, in fact.’

‘ah, yes! ah, yes! that may be, reverendo. but there are others who want it—your love letter.’

‘i offer you, on the part of my friend, a hundred pesetas for this letter.’

the priest’s wrinkled face wore a grim smile. it was so little—a hundred pesetas, the price of a dinner for two persons at one of the great restaurants on the puerta del sol. but to father concha the sum represented five hundred cups of black coffee denied to himself in the evening at the café—five hundred packets of cigarettes, so-called of havana, unsmoked—two new cassocks in the course of twenty years—a hundred little gastronomic delights sternly resisted season after season.

‘not enough, your hundred pesetas, reverendo, not enough,’ laughed the man. and concha, who could drive as keen a bargain as any market-woman of ronda, knew by the manner of saying it that sebastian only spoke the truth when he said that he had other offers.

‘see, reverendo,’ the man went on, leaning across the table and banging a dirty fist upon it, ‘come to-night at ten o’clock. there are others coming at the same hour to buy my letter in the pink envelope. we will have an auction, a little auction, and the letter goes to the highest bidder. but what does your reverence want with a love letter, eh?’

‘i will come,’ said the padre, and, turning, he went home to count his money once more.

there are many living still who remember the great gale of wind which was now raging, and through which father concha struggled back to the calle preciados as the city clocks struck ten. old men and women still tell how the theatres were deserted that night and the great cafés wrapt in darkness. for none dare venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. concha, however, with that lean strength that comes from a life of abstemiousness and low-living, crept along in the shadow of the houses and reached his destination unhurt. the tall house in the alley leading from the calle preciados to the plazuela santa maria was dark, as indeed were most of the streets of madrid this night. a small moon struggled, however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks of light down the narrow streets. concha caught sight of the form of a man in the alley before him. the priest carried no weapon, but he did not pause. at this moment a gleam of light aided him.

‘se?or conyngham!’ he said. ‘what brings you here?’

and the englishman turned sharply on his heel.

‘is that you—father concha, of ronda?’ he asked.

‘no other, my son.’

standing in the doorway conyngham held out his hand with that air of good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal spaniards.

‘hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your cloth to be in the streets,’ he said; whereat concha, who had a keen appreciation of such small pleasantries, laughed grimly.

‘and i have not even the excuse of my cloth. i am abroad on worldly business, and not even my own. i will be honest with you, se?or conyngham. i am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink envelope. you remember—in the garden at ronda, eh?’

‘yes, i remember; and why do you want that letter?’

‘for the sake of julia barenna.’

‘ah! i want it for the sake of estella vincente.’

concha laughed shortly.

‘yes,’ he said. ‘it is only up to the age of twenty-five that men imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world. but we need not bid against each other, my son. perhaps a sight of the letter before i destroy it would satisfy the se?orita.’

‘no, we need not bid against each other,’ began conyngham; but the priest dragged him back into the doorway with a quick whisper of ‘silence!’

someone was coming down the other stairway of the tall house, with slow and cautious steps. conyngham and his companion drew back to the foot of the stairs and waited. it became evident that he who descended the steps did so without a light. at the door he seemed to stop, probably making sure that the narrow alley was deserted. a moment later he hurried past the door where the two men stood. the moon was almost clear, and by its light both the watchers recognised larralde in a flash of thought. the next instant esteban larralde was running for his life with frederick conyngham on his heels.

the lamp at the corner of the calle preciados had been shattered against the wall by a gust of wind, and both men clattered through a slough of broken glass. down the whole length of the preciados but one lamp was left alight, and the narrow street was littered with tiles and fallen bricks, for many chimneys had been blown down, and more than one shutter lay in the roadway, torn from its hinges by the hurricane. it was at the risk of life that any ventured abroad at this hour and amid the whirl of falling masonry. larralde and conyngham had the calle preciados to themselves—and larralde cursed his spurs, which rang out at each footfall, and betrayed his whereabouts.

a dozen times the spaniard fell, but before his pursuer could reach him, the same obstacle threw conyngham to the ground. a dozen times some falling object crashed to earth on the spaniard’s heels, and the englishman leapt aside to escape the rebound. larralde was fleet of foot despite his meagre limbs, and leapt over such obstacles as he could perceive, with the agility of a monkey. he darted into the lighted doorway—the entrance to the palatial mansion of an upstart politician. the large doors were thrown open, and the hall-porter stood in full livery awaiting the master’s carriage. larralde was already in the patio, and conyngham ran through the marble-paved entrance hall, before the porter realised what was taking place. there was no second exit as the fugitive had hoped—so it was round the patio and out again into the dark street, leaving the hall-porter dumfoundered.

larralde turned sharply to the right as soon as he gained the calle preciados. it was a mere alley running the whole way round a church—and here again was solitude, but not silence, for the wind roared among the chimneys overhead as it roars through a ship’s rigging at sea. the calle preciados again! and a momentary confusion among the tables of a café that stood upon the pavement, amid upturned chairs and a fallen, flapping awning. the pace was less killing now, but larralde still held his own—one hand clutched over the precious letter regained at last—and conyngham was conscious of a sharp pain where the spaniard’s knife had touched his lung.

larralde ran mechanically with open mouth and staring eyes. he never doubted that death was at his heels, should he fail to distance the pursuer. for he had recognised conyngham in the patio of the great house, and as he ran the vague wonder filled his mind whether the englishman carried a knife. what manner of death would it be if that long arm reached him? esteban larralde was afraid. his own life—julia’s life—the lives of a whole carlist section were at stake. the history of spain, perhaps of europe, depended on the swiftness of his foot.

the little crescent moon was shining clearly now between the long-drawn rifts of the rushing clouds. larralde turned to the right again, up a narrow street which seemed to promise a friendly darkness. the ascent was steep, and the spaniard gasped for breath as he ran—his legs were becoming numb. he had never been in this street before, and knew not whither it led. but it was at all events dark and deserted. suddenly he fell upon a heap of bricks and rubbish, a whole stack of chimneys. he could smell the soot. conyngham was upon him, touched him, but failed to get a grip. larralde was afoot in an instant, and fell heavily down the far side of the barricade. he gained a few yards again, and, before conyngham’s eyes, was suddenly swallowed up in a black mass of falling masonry. it was more than a chimney this time; nothing less than a whole house carried bodily to the ground by the fall of the steeple of the church of santa maria del monte. conyngham stopped dead, and threw his arms over his head. the crash was terrific, deafening—and for a few moments the englishman was stunned. he opened his eyes and closed them again, for the dust and powdered mortar whirled round him like smoke. almost blinded, he crept back by the way he had come, and the street was already full of people. in the calle preciados he sat down on a door-step, and there waited until he had gained mastery over his limbs, which shook still. presently he made his way back to the house where he had left concha.

the man sebastian had, a week earlier, seen and recognised conyngham as the bearer of the letter addressed to colonel monreal, and left at that officer’s lodging in xeres at the moment of his death in the streets. sebastian approached conyngham, and informed him that he had in his possession sundry papers belonging to the late colonel monreal, which might be of value to a royalist. this was, therefore, not the first time that conyngham had climbed the narrow stairs of the tall house with two doors.

he found concha busying himself by the bedside, where sebastian lay in the unconsciousness of deep drink.

‘he has probably been drugged,’ said the priest. ‘or, he may be dying. what is more important to us is, that the letter is not here. i have searched. larralde escaped you?’

‘yes; and of course has the letter.’

‘of course, amigo.’

the priest looked at the prostrate man with a face of profound contempt, and, shrugging his shoulders, went towards the door.

‘come,’ he said, ‘i must return to toledo and julia. it is thither that this larralde always returns, and she, poor woman, believes in him. ah, my friend’—he paused and shook his long finger at conyngham. ‘when a woman believes in a man she makes him or mars him; there is no medium.’