Jealousy was one motive, and fear of what I knew about him another. And he was just the sort of cunning beast to go to work in this mole-like way. He had reckoned that Barosa’s people would accept without question such a proof of my treachery and act upon it. And in all probability they would have done so, but for my conversation with Barosa on the night of the reception and his conviction of my good faith. But there was another point. He must have known that the contents of the letter would be at once passed on to Barosa. There was therefore some one about Volheno in league with the revolutionary party, and that some one must be sufficiently high in his confidence to be able to get the letter and send it to his friends. I must find that man out; and then I studied the little slip of paper which Maral had inadvertently given me with the letter. The line of nonsense ran as follows. “Real effects to you truly. You know what this only can mean. 134” Absolute gibberish of course. But I had the key. I noticed that the sentence exactly fitted a line of the same length as the strip of paper with the holes in it; and when I laid the first line of holes on the top of the words the meaning was clear. All the letters were covered by it except the following: RETURN AT ONCE “Return at once.” A simple direction to send the letter back; and 134 was probably the number by which the man was known to his companions. I had had my trouble for nothing--or next to nothing; for the cipher key did not cover the figures at the end of the message. Then a thought struck me. The numerals might stand for letters: 134 would be “A. C. D.;” or 13 and 4, “M.D.” “M.D.!” I uttered the letters aloud in my surprise. They were Miralda’s initials. “Miralda Dominguez.” The coincidence mazed me; but a moment’s reflection made the inference appear grotesque, preposterous, idiotic; and I laughed at it. But my nerves were out of balance. The ordeal of the last few hours, following so close upon the tense interview with Miralda on the _Stella_, had tried me severely. Everybody appeared to be playing at make-believe to cause me to misread everything I saw and heard. Even as I laughed at the thought that Miralda could have had even the remotest connexion with the cipher message, the disconcerting possibility suggested by the coincidence would not be shaken off. Furious with myself, for the subconscious distrust of her which this depression of spirits implied, I huddled the papers together and went off to bed. CHAPTER XII THE REAL “M. D.” A few hours’ sleep enabled me to laugh much more sincerely at the thought which had sent me off to bed in a hurry, and I was reviewing the whole situation when Miralda’s brother called. He had the look of a man who had been making a night of it, and was washed out and generally sorry for himself. “Hullo, then, I have caught you, Mr. Donnington. May I come in?”