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.

'Senor 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, Senor
Conyngham. I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink
envelope. You remember--in the garden at Ronda, eh?'