"A daughter of Porto Rico--I am pleased to know it, for that lovely island will soon rest beneath the starry banner. A grand future awaits her under the new dispensation. I have been in San Juan myself, and shall never cease to remember that quaint city." Perhaps the evening breeze brought with it a breath of chilly fog from off old Dublin bay--at any rate the wearer of the sombre nun's garb shivered a little and seemed to shrink back from the American. "Now," continued Owen, cheerily, as though his quick eye had not noted with considerable surprise this peculiar action on her part, "we have reached the bridge. Tell me whence comes this danger?" "There is one whom you have believed a friend, Senor Owen. Trust him not, for he has sworn to work your downfall." "Which is very interesting, to say the least. Am I to be arrested as a Fenian suspect, come over the big pond to duplicate the Burke and Cavendish tragedy of Phœnix park? Or is this sly schemer a Spanish sympathizer in the pay of Sagasta?" "You have said it, senor--the last is the truth. But there is more--another reason why he hates you." "Perhaps you wouldn't mind mentioning it?" "His name first--it is Jerome Wellington." Owen seemed startled. "Confusion--I never suspected that _he_ was in Sagasta's pay. Luckily I have made it a rule to be as close mouthed as an oyster with regard to all state secrets. So friend Jerome has a private grudge against me. When have I trod upon his toes? Kindly enlighten me, good angel?" "It is on her account--the dashing Senorita Cleo," came the muffled answer, and again Owen knew the eyes back of the veil were fastened intently upon him as though to read his secret. Thereupon he pursed up his mustached lip and emitted a low, incredulous whistle. "Cleo Fairfax, my independent cousin, the daughter of ten millions, what has she to do with the case? Is Jerome jealous--does he seek her hand--well, let him sail in and win. I shall not stand in the way, for it has never occurred to me to fall in love with my cousin." "Ah! senor, that is very well, but this man who is as handsome as an Adonis hates you because he knows the American senorita loves you." "What! Cleo loves me--incredible--impossible." "More, she adores you." "Senorita, you surely jest or dream." "I speak what I know, and the fact is patent to everyone that you have but to declare a word to bring this lovely girl and her millions to your arms." "God forbid that I should ever speak that word, unless I truly loved her as a man should the girl he means to make his wife. It is, I say again, impossible that such a thing can be." "Few things are impossible, senor." "But--there are impediments in the way." "Perhaps none that might not be swept aside."