Mr Thorne and his interesting convoy arrived safe at the Calle Derecho without any interruption; but great was their dismay as time passed on and no Mendoza made his appearance. Early next morning Thorne was on foot to make his inquiries, but not a word could he hear of his whereabouts. The only consolation he could hold out to his fair and trembling guests was the probability that he might be concealed in some friend’s house, or might find his way on board of some vessel. “But cheer up, ladies, you at least are safe, both from Rosas and Le Brun; and what a comfort that would be to your old father if he knew it! Ladies, you are the mistresses of the house. I must send for a female servant to attend you, and you may send for some lady friend to keep you in countenance, if you can find one, or think it proper.--You will see the propriety of not moving out of doors for a few days. The only restriction I impose upon both of you is, that you never drive me away from your presence by even whispering a word about thanks. And now, ladies, excuse me--I am going to sally out on another voyage of inquiry,” and, before a word could be said in reply, he hurried from the room. After running about till he was almost exhausted, Thorne repaired to the Sala de los Estrangeros residentes, or club-room of resident foreigners, for a little refreshment; and scarcely had he entered when Le Brun stood before him, pale, breathless, and wo-begone. “Le Brun,” cried Thorne, “you are a spy, a traitor;--you are worse than I even conceived you to be. Leave me--fly this moment, or you meet your deserts from my hands and in this very place.” “Thorne,” cried Le Brun with the most abject air, “I am the most miserable man in existence. I swear to you, by every thing that binds man to man, I was not the cause of Mendoza’s capture last night;--my life, sir, is in more peril than his. At this moment the emissaries of the police are at my heels, and ere sunset, I shall be in prison,--ere sunrise probably a corpse;--where is Mendoza?” “He is not in prison?” demanded Thorne. “No, no--he is not.” “Then thank God he is in safer hands than yours or _your_ friends,--he is safe. Confess, Le Brun, that you seek him to save yourself?” “He is safe, you say;--did you say he was safe?” “I did,” said Thorne, who had no idea of Mendoza running any risk, except that of his falling into the hands of Rosas. “But begone, sir. I see your object;--you would now sell his life to save your own little miserable existence.” “Mr Thorne,” said Le Brun, “I am too abject now to resent insults or injuries. Thanks be to Heaven! Mendoza is now safe;--my course is _now_ clear. I can prove to you now that, however base you may think me, I have his interest at heart.” “Yes, after your own weak truckling schemes have failed. Go on, sir.”