While Sir John waited in the little shop, Father Concha walked to the Plazuela de l’Iglesia Vieja, which small square, overhanging the Tagus and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted except at midday, when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage in a grave game of bowls. Concha sat, book in hand, opened honestly at the office of the day and hour, and read no word. Instead, he stared across the gorge at the brown bank of land which commands the city and renders it useless as a fortress in the days of modern artillery. He sat and stared grimly, and thought perhaps of those secret springs within the human heart that make one man successful and unhappy, while another, possessing brains and ability and energy, fails in life, yet is perhaps the happier of the two. For it had happened to Father Concha, as it may happen to writer and reader at any moment, to meet one who in individuality bears a resemblance to that self which we never know and yet are ever conscious of. Sir John Pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman’s invitation to step upstairs with something approaching alacrity. Larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled by cigarette ash. He had the unkempt and pallid look of one who has not seen the sun or breathed fresh air for days. For, as Concepçion had said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter while others played the bolder game at the front. Larralde had, in fact, not stirred abroad for nearly a week. ‘Well, señor,’ he said, with a false air of bravado. ‘How fares it with your little undertaking?’ ‘That,’ replied Sir John, ‘is past—and paid for. And I have another matter for your consideration. Conyngham is not, after all, the man I seek.’ Sir John’s manner had changed. He spoke as one having authority. And Larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a past payment. ‘Ah!’ he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of indifference. ‘On the one hand,’ continued Sir John judicially, ‘I come to make you an offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the other hand, Señor Larralde, I know enough to make things particularly unpleasant for you.’ Larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the matchbox. His thoughts seemed to amuse him. ‘I have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your possession again. I do not know the contents of this letter, and I cannot say that I am at all interested in it. But a friend of mine is particularly anxious to have possession of it for a short space of time. I have, unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary.’ Larralde’s eyes flashed through the smoke. ‘You are about to offer me money; be careful, señor,’ he said hotly, and Sir John smiled.