‘Bad,’ growled Concha, and then told his tale over again in a briefer, blunter manner. ‘It all arises,’ he concluded, ‘from my pestilential habit of interfering in the affairs of other people.’ ‘No,’ said General Vincente; ‘it arises from Conyngham’s pestilential habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes.’ The door was opened again, and a servant entered. ‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘a man called Concepçion Vara, who desires a moment.’ ‘What did I tell you?’ said the General to Concha. ‘Another of Conyngham’s friends. Spain is full of them. Let Concepçion Vara come to this room.’ The servant looked slightly surprised, and retired. If, however, this manner of reception was unusual, Concepçion was too finished a man of the world to betray either surprise or embarrassment. By good fortune he happened to be wearing a coat. His flowing unstarched shirt was as usual spotless, he wore a flower in the ribbon of the hat carried jauntily in his hand, and about his person in the form of handkerchief and faja were those touches of bright colour by means of which he so irresistibly attracted the eye of the fair. ‘Excellency,’ he murmured, bowing on the threshold; ‘Reverendo,’ with one step forward and a respectful semi-religious inclination of the head towards Concha; ‘Señorita!’ The ceremony here concluded with a profound obeisance to Estella full of gallantry and grave admiration. Then he stood upright, and indicated by a pleasant smile that no one need feel embarrassed, that in fact this meeting was most opportune. ‘A matter of urgency, Excellency,’ he said confidentially to Vincente. ‘I have reason to suspect that one of my friends—in fact, the Señor Conyngham, with whom I am at the moment in service—happens to be in danger.’ ‘Ah! what makes you suspect that, my friend?’ Concepçion waved his hand lightly, as if indicating that the news had been brought to him by the birds of the air. ‘When one goes into the café,’ he said, ‘one is not always so particular—one associates with those who happen to be there—muleteers, diligencia-drivers, bull-fighters, all and sundry, even contrabandistas.’ He made this last admission with a face full of pious toleration, and Father Concha laughed grimly. ‘That is true, my friend,’ said the General, hastening to cover the priest’s little lapse of good manners, ‘and from these gentlemen—honest enough in their way, no doubt—you have learnt—?’ ‘That the Señor Conyngham has enemies in Spain.’ ‘So I understand; but he has also friends?’ ‘He has one,’ said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque attitude, with his right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was concealed in the rolls of his faja. ‘Then he is fortunate,’ said the General, with his most winning smile; ‘why do you come to me, my friend.’ ‘I require two men,’ answered Concepçion airily, ‘that is all.’ ‘Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?’