On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he had said that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his dead body, and returned to the house to meet the notaries. Then the seals were broken and the parchments read and I was put in full possession of the dead man’s wealth, and having deducted such sums as were payable for dues, legacies, and fees, the notaries left me bowing humbly, for was I not rich? Yes, I was rich, wealth had come to me without effort, and I had reason to desire it, yet this was the saddest night that I had passed since I set foot in Spain, for my mind was filled with doubts and sorrow, and moreover my loneliness got a hold of me. But sad as it might be, it was destined to seem yet more sorrowful before the morning. For as I sat making pretence to eat, a servant came to me saying that a woman waited in the outer room who had asked to see his late master. Guessing that this was some client who had not heard of Fonseca’s death I was about to order that she should be dismissed, then bethought me that I might be of service to her or at the least forget some of my own trouble in listening to hers. So I bade him bring her in. Presently she came, a tall woman wrapped in a dark cloak that hid her face. I bowed and motioned to her to be seated, when suddenly she started and spoke. “I asked to see Don Andres de Fonseca,” she said in a low quick voice. “You are not he, señor.” “Andres de Fonseca was buried to-day,” I answered. “I was his assistant in his business and am his heir. If I can serve you in any way I am at your disposal.” “You are young—very young,” she murmured confusedly, “and the matter is terrible and urgent. How can I trust you?” “It is for you to judge, señora.” She thought a while, then drew off her cloak, displaying the robes of a nun. “Listen,” she said. “I must do many a penance for this night’s work, and very hardly have I won leave to come hither upon an errand of mercy. Now I cannot go back empty-handed, so I must trust you. But first swear by thine blessed Mother of God that you will not betray me.” “I give you my word,” I answered; “if that is not enough, let us end this talk.” “Do not be angry with me,” she pleaded; “I have not left my convent walls for many years and I am distraught with grief. I seek a poison of the deadliest. I will pay well for it.” “I am not the tool of murderers,” I answered. “For what purpose do you wish the poison?”