He still spoke directly to Conyngham, who bowed his head in silence, with the queer smile still hovering on his lips. Estella saw it and drew a sharp breath. In the course of her short life, which had almost been spent in the midst of warfare, she had seen men in danger more than once, and perhaps recognised that smile. ‘I particularly beg your attention,’ explained Sir John to Conyngham, ‘because I understand from General Vincente that you are in reality attached to the staff of General Espartero, and it is to him that I look for help.’ Sir John paused again. He had established another point. One almost expected to see him raise his hand to his shoulder to throw back the silken gown. ‘Some months ago,’ he went on, ‘these Chartists attacked my house in the North of England, and killed my son.’ There was a short silence, and the General muttered a curt and polite Spanish oath under his breath. But somehow the speaker had failed to make that point, and he hurried on. ‘It was not, technically speaking, a murder; my boy, who had a fine spirit, attacked the rioters, and a clever counsel might have got a verdict for the scoundrel who actually struck the blow. I knew this, and awaited events. I did not even take steps against the man who killed my son—an only son and child. It was not, from a legal point of view, worth while.’ He laughed his unpleasant laugh again and presently went on. ‘Fortune, however, favoured me. The trouble grew worse, and the Newport riots at last aroused the Government. The sentence upon the ringleaders gave me my opportunity. It was worth while to hunt down the murderer of my son when I could ensure him sixteen or twenty years’ penal servitude.’ ‘Quite,’ said the General; ‘quite.’ And he smiled. He seemed to fail to realise that Sir John Pleydell was in deadly earnest, and really harboured the implacable spirit of revenge with which he cynically credited himself. ‘I traced my man to Gibraltar, and thence he appears to have come north,’ continued Sir John Pleydell. ‘He has probably taken service under Espartero—many of our English outlaws wear the Spanish Queen’s uniform. He is, of course, bearing an assumed name; but surely it would be possible to trace him?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham, ‘I think you will be able to find him.’ Sir John’s eyes had for a moment a gleam of life in them. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I am glad to hear you say that. For that is my object in coming to this country; and although I have during the course of my life had many objects of ambition or desire, none of them has so entirely absorbed my attention as this one. Half a dozen men have gone to penal servitude in order that I might succeed in my purpose.’