confusion among the tables of a cafe 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