‘So you have come, my son,’ he said, shaking hands. He looked up into the Englishman’s face, which was burnt brown by service under a merciless sun. Conyngham looked lean and strong, but his eyes had no rest in them. This was not a man who had all he wanted. ‘Are you come to Ronda, or are you passing through?’ asked the priest. ‘To Ronda. As I passed the Casa Barenna I made inquiries. The ladies are in the town, it appears.’ ‘Yes; they are with Estella in the house you know—unless you have forgotten it.’ ‘No,’ answered Conyngham getting out of the saddle. ‘No; I have forgotten nothing.’ Concepçion came forward and led the horse away. ‘I will walk to the Casa Vincente. Have you the time to accompany me?’ said Conyngham. ‘I have always time—for my neighbour’s business,’ replied Concha. And they set off together. ‘You walk stiffly,’ said Concha. ‘Have you ridden far?’ ‘From Osuna—forty miles since daybreak.’ ‘You are in a hurry.’ ‘Yes, I am in a hurry.’ Without further comment he extracted from inside his smart tunic a letter—the famous letter in a pink envelope—which he handed to Concha. ‘Yes,’ said the priest, turning it over. ‘You and I first saw this in the Hotel de la Marina at Algeciras, when we were fools not to throw it into the nearest brazier. We should have saved a good man’s life, my friend.’ He handed the letter back, and thoughtfully dusted his cassock where it was worn and shiny with constant dusting, so that the snuff had nought to cling to. ‘And you have got it—at last. Holy saints—these Englishmen! Do you always get what you want, my son?’ ‘Not always,’ replied Conyngham, with an uneasy laugh. ‘But I should be a fool not to try.’ ‘Assuredly,’ said Concha, ‘assuredly. And you have come to Ronda—to try?’ ‘Yes.’ They walked on in silence, on the shady side of the street, and presently passed and saluted a priest—one of Concha’s colleagues in this city of the South. ‘There walks a tragedy,’ said Concha, in his curt way. ‘Inside every cassock there walks a tragedy—or a villain.’ After a pause it was Concha who again broke the silence. Conyngham seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. ‘And Larralde—?’ said the priest. ‘I come from him—from Barcelona,’ answered Conyngham, ‘where he is in safety. Catalonia is full of such as he. Sir John Pleydell, before leaving Spain, bought this letter for two hundred pounds—a few months ago—when I was a poor man and could not offer a price for it. But Larralde disappeared when the plot failed, and I have only found him lately in Barcelona.’ ‘In Barcelona?’ echoed Concha. ‘Yes; where he can take a passage to Cuba, and where he awaits Julia Barenna.’ ‘Ah!’ said Concha, ‘so he also is faithful—because life is not long, my son. That is the only reason. How wise was the great God when He made a human life short! ‘ ‘I have a letter,’ continued Conyngham, ‘from Larralde to the Señorita Barenna.’