They went on, crossed a small plaza, and so came down to the Tajo. A bridge spans the ravine in a single arch; in the centre of the bridge Miranda stopped, leaned over the parapet and looked downwards. Wilbraham followed her example. For three hundred feet the walls of the gorge fell sheer, at the bottom the turbulence of a torrent foamed and roared, at the top was the span of the bridge. In the brickwork of the arch a tiny window looked out on air. "Do you see that window?" said Miranda, drily. "The prison is underfoot in the arch of the bridge." "Indeed, how picturesque," returned Wilbraham, easily, who was quite untouched by any menace which Miranda's words might suggest. Miranda looked across the road towards a guardia. Wilbraham lazily followed the direction of her glance; for all the emotion which he showed blackmail might have been held in Spain an honourable means of livelihood. Miranda turned back. "That window," she said, "is the window of the prison." "The view," remarked Wilbraham, "would compensate in some measure for the restriction." "Chains might add to the restriction." "Chains _are_ unpleasant," Wilbraham heartily agreed. Miranda realised that she had tempted defeat in this little encounter. She accepted it and walked on. "You were wise to come off that barrow, Mrs. Warriner," Wilbraham remarked in approval. They crossed the bridge and entered the Mercadillo, the new Spanish quarter of the town, ascended the hill, and came to the bull ring. Before that Wilbraham stopped. "Why do we go to the Alameda?" "We can talk there on neutral ground." "It seems a long way." "On the other hand," replied Miranda, "the Alameda is close to the railway station. By the bye, how did you know where I lived?" "There was no difficulty in discovering that. I learnt at Gibraltar that you lived at Ronda, and the station-master here told me where. When I saw your house I did not wonder at your choice. You were wise to take a Moorish house, I fancy--the patio with the tamarisks in the middle and the fountain and the red and green tiles--very pleasant, I should think. A door or two stood open. The rooms seemed charming, low in roof, with dark panels, of a grateful coolness, and so far as I could judge, with fine views." "You went into the house, then?" exclaimed Miranda. "Yes, I asked for you, and was told that Miss Holt was at home. I thought it wise to go in--one never knows. So I introduced myself, but not my business, to Miss Holt--your cousin, is she not? A profound sentimentalist, I should fancy; I noticed she was reading _Henrietta Temple_. She complained of being much alone; she nurses grievances, no doubt. Sentimentalists have that habit--what do you say?" Miranda could have laughed at the shrewdness of the man's perceptions, had she not been aware that the shrewdness was a weapon directed against her own breast.