‘Why, it’s the devout lover!’ he cried. ‘Señor Larralde, you remember me, Algeciras, and your pink love letter—deuced fishy love letter, that; nearly got me into a devil of a row, I can tell you. How are you, eh?’ And the Englishman rode forward with a jolly laugh and his hand held out. Larralde took it without enthusiasm. It was rather difficult to pick a picturesque quarrel with such a person as this. Moreover, the true conspirator never believes in another man’s honesty. ‘Who would have expected to meet you here?’ went on Conyngham jovially. ‘It is not so surprising as you think.’ ‘Oh!’ There was no mistaking Larralde’s manner, and the Englishman’s gay blue eyes hardened suddenly and rather surprisingly. ‘No, I have followed you. I want that letter.’ ‘Well, as it happens, Señor Larralde, I have not got your letter, and if I had I am not quite sure that I would give it to you. Your conduct in the matter has not been over-nice, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t think much of a man who gets strangers and women to do his dirty work for him.’ Larralde stroked his moustache with a half-furtive air of contempt. ‘I should have given the confounded letter to the Alcalde of Ronda if it had not been that a lady would have suffered for it, and let you take your chance, Señor Larralde.’ Larralde shrugged his shoulders. ‘You would not have given it to the Alcalde of Ronda,’ he said in a sneering voice, ‘because you want it yourself. You require it in order to make your peace with Estella Vincente.’ ‘We are not going to talk of Señorita Vincente,’ said Conyngham quietly. ‘You say you followed me because you wanted that letter. It is not in my possession. I left it in the house of Colonel Monreal at Xeres. If you are going on to Madrid, I think I will sit down here and have a cigarette. If, on the other hand, you propose resting here, I shall proceed, as it is getting late.’ Conyngham looked at his companion with a nod and a smile which was not in the least friendly and at the same time quite cheerful. He seemed to recognise the necessity of quarrelling, but proposed to do so as light-heartedly as possible. They were both on horseback in the middle of the road, Larralde a few paces in the direction of Madrid. Conyngham indicated the road with an inviting wave of the hand. ‘Will you go on?’ he asked. Larralde sat looking at him with glittering eyes, and said nothing. ‘Then I will continue my journey,’ said the Englishman, touching his horse lightly with the spur. The horse moved on and passed within a yard of the other. At this moment Larralde rose in his stirrups and flung himself on one side.