“Alone in her boudoir. This is her day for correspondence,” replied the duenna, resolutely striving to repress her tears. “Then I’ll leave you here. Let your best wishes go with me.” Almost lightly he touched her hand and was gone, disappearing among the roses. Tia Teresa bowed her head across her folded arms. She was thinking not of the past now, but solely of the future. “How would it all end?” CHAPTER XXXIII—Old Friends AM glad to find you alone,” spoke Mr. Robles, as he advanced into the subdued light of Mrs. Darlington’s boudoir. She was seated at her escritoire. Around her were letters lying open for answer, others sealed and ready for the mail, also sundry books of account which indicated that the chatelaine of La Siesta was a business woman who paid attention to the running of her household and the management of her estate. “Always so pleased to see you,” she replied, as she rose to give her visitor welcome. “Pray, keep your seat, Mrs. Darlington. You form an attractive picture—the lady who is not too much of a lady to neglect her correspondence and her business affairs. And it is about some business matters that I have come to talk with you this evening.” She smiled pleasedly over the compliment paid in the old-fashioned courtly style of the true Spanish grandee. She herself always suggested the old-time, old-world lady of fashion—one belonging to the old lace and sweet lavender era that has so nearly passed away. “Business matters?” echoed Mrs. Darlington. “That sounds quite serious. We have had no cause to talk business for years and years. La Siesta has certainly justified its name.” “But even the most pleasant siesta must in time come to an end,” he replied with a grave smile. “There are things in this world that must be accomplished—calls of duty that interfere sadly with continuous repose. I am leaving tonight on a journey—perhaps a long journey,” he added slowly and thoughtfully. “Oh, going abroad? The wanderlust again? That’s too bad. We shall all miss you so much.” She spoke the words with real concern in her tone and in her eyes. “Not exactly the wanderlust,” he responded. “But there is a certain task I must perform. And it takes me away—far away from your delightful La Siesta.” “And for a long time?” “That will be decided by events. I shall write you a long letter when once I am on the ocean. Meanwhile there are certain documents I wish to leave in your charge, my good kind friend.” He drew the packet from the breast pocket of his coat. “They are important papers, and I wish them to be locked in your safe.” “Under seal, I see,” she remarked, indicating the big circle of wax that closed the cover. “Yes, sealed with my signet,” he answered, touching the ring on his finger. “But all the same I wish you to know the nature of their contents. That is why I have sought this little private talk.” Silently she settled herself to listen, and he went on: