‘It is,’ he said, ‘a very grave matter. I have not had much experience in such things, for my path has always lain in small parochial affairs—dealings with children and women.’ Estella was already pouring some wine into a glass. With a woman’s instinct she saw that the old man was overwrought and faint. It was a Friday, and in his simple way there was no more austere abstinent than Father Concha, who had probably touched little food throughout the long hot day. ‘Take your time, my friend; take your time,’ said the General, who never hurried and was never too late. ‘A pinch of snuff now—it stimulates the nerves.’ ‘It is,’ said Concha at length—breaking a biscuit in his long bony fingers and speaking unembarrassedly with his mouth full—’it is that I have by the merest accident lighted upon a matter of political importance.’ The General nodded, and held his wine up to the light. ‘There are matters of much political importance,’ he said, ‘in the air just now.’ ‘A plot,’ continued Concha, ‘spreading over all Spain; the devil is surely in it, and I know the Carlists are. A plot, believe me, to assassinate and rob and kidnap.’ ‘Yes,’ said the General with his tolerant little smile. ‘Yes, my dear Padre. Some men are so bloodthirsty; is it not so?’ ‘This plot is directed against the little Queen; against the Queen Regent; against many who are notable Royalists occupying high posts in the Government or the army.’ He glanced at Estella, and then looked meaningly at the General, who could scarcely fail to comprehend. ‘Let us deal with the Queen and the Queen Regent,’ said Vincente; ‘the others are probably able to take care of themselves.’ ‘None can guard himself against assassination.’ The General seemed for a moment inclined to dispute this statement, but shrugged his shoulders and finally passed it by. ‘The Queen,’ he said. ‘What of her?’ In response, Concha took a newspaper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. After a brief search up and down the ill-printed columns, he found the desired paragraph, and read aloud: ‘The Queen is in Madrid. The Queen Regent journeys from Seville to rejoin her daughter in the capital, prosecuting her journey by easy stages and accompanied by a small guard. Her Majesty sleeps at Ciudad Real to-night, and at Toledo to-morrow night.’ ‘This,’ said Concha, folding the newspaper, ‘is a Carlist and revolutionary rag whose readers are scarcely likely to be interested for a good motive in the movements of the Queen Regent.’ ‘True, my dear Padre—true,’ admitted Vincente, half reluctantly. ‘Many kiss hands they would fain see chopped off. In the streets and on the Plaza I have seen many reading this newspaper and talking over it with unusual interest. Like a bad lawyer, I am giving the confirmation of the argument before the argument itself.’ ‘No matter—no matter.’