"I know that she is in danger of arrest. Where is she? Please tell me everything you can. I am on fire with impatience." But my impetuous excitement so heightened her fear that, to my consternation, she grew suddenly hysterical, and I cursed myself for a blockhead, as I looked round for scent and restoratives and did my best to calm her. "She must be saved, Ferdinand," she cried, helplessly, after precious minutes had been wasted. "Oh, the rash, headstrong, wilful child!" "If you will be calm and tell me where she is, I can save her," I said, speaking now with forced deliberation and cool firmness. "But you must be calm, and tell me everything." "I will tell you. I did not know till to-day that she was actually plotting to get the King stolen away by these fearful Carlists; and now it has been done, and she has gone away somewhere, and I know it is to take some other terrible steps. I can endure no more of it, Ferdinand. I love Sarita; but I will not stay another day in Madrid." "Do you know where she has gone?" "No—yes—I don’t know. All I know is this: She came to me about two hours ago, her eyes shining and her face on fire with enthusiasm—you know how she would look at such a time—and told me what she had been planning, and that it had all succeeded, and that she had to go away for an hour or two, but would be back as soon as she had finished the great work there was to do. I was so frightened, I nearly fainted. I begged her not to go—but you know her;" and Madame Chansette waved her hands and shook her head feebly, the tears still running down her cheeks. "Do you know where she has gone?" I repeated, driven almost to my wit’s end by the waste of time caused by her weakness. "I can only make a guess, and I don’t know whether I ought to have done it;" an inconsequential enigma which made me bite my lip with vexation in the effort to restrain my impatience. She glanced up helplessly once or twice while hesitating. "If you know nothing, I can do nothing," I said, as gently as I could, to spur her. "I am almost ashamed of it, but I had better say, perhaps; I don’t know what you will think. When Sarita came to me she had a letter in her hand, and—and before I quite knew what I was doing, I—I had read it." "Thank God you did, if it told you what we want to know." "It was only a short note," she said, relieved by my reception of the confession, but still apologetic. Oh, these good, honest, weak, exasperating people! "It said something about all having gone well, and that she was to go at once to——" "Where?" I cried, on fire, as she paused again. "I think it was 47, or 147, or 247—I know 47 was part of it—Calle de Valencia. I am certain about the street, and she may be there. Do you think it was very mean—what’s that?" She broke off with a start, and began to tremble violently, as a loud knocking at the house door and a great pealing of the heavy bell came to our ears.