Madame Chansette had told me 47 was part of the number of the house I sought, and one of the first I saw being 147, I determined to try that first. It was a doctor’s house—Dr. Pascual Vedia, and when I rang the bell a maid-servant opened the door, and showed me into a consulting room. My nerves had been so wrought upon by the events of the day, the scene at the Opera, my fears for Sarita, and now by the extraordinary nature of my present mission, that this commonplace conventional reception seemed quite a ridiculous anti-climax. Despite all my anxiety I caught myself smiling when I was left alone. "What an ass I am," I exclaimed; "as if I was to expect the long black conspirators’ cloaks, the sharp daggers, slouched hats of picture books! This may very well be the place after all." My meditations were broken by the entrance of the doctor, a man of some forty years of age, with the most approved medical manner. A comfortable-looking person in complete keeping with his conventional surroundings, who smiled encouragingly while he looked me over with a professional eye. If he was a dangerous Carlist, danger and Carlism certainly appeared to agree with him. "You wish to consult me, senor? My servant did not bring me your name." His manner was easy and insinuating. "I have not called to consult you, but wish to see the Senorita Castelar, who is, I believe, here. I have grave and urgent news for her." "I am afraid there is some mistake. My name is Pascual Vedia. I am a physician." It struck me he said this to look at me and gain time to think. There was just a second of hesitation; and then he added: "May I ask your name?" "My name is of no importance if the senorita is not here. But the news I bring is of the utmost gravity—to her and others," and I emphasised the words with a glance of meaning. This time the pause before he replied was longer; then he answered— "My wife has a few friends this evening, but the senorita is not here." "You know her?" I asked quickly. "Really, as I have not the pleasure of knowing your name——" and he left the sentence unfinished, with an uplifting of the hands. He was fencing with me, that was unmistakable. And, more than that, he was suspicious. When I saw that, the means of at once testing and reassuring him occurred to me. I looked him straight in the eyes, and very deliberately repeated the formula I had learned from Vidal de Pelayo. "Counting all renegades lovers of Satan, by the grace of God." "By the grace of God," he repeated instantly with deep earnestness, and gave me his hand. His manner underwent a remarkable change; his easy, matter-of-fact, medical practitioner air dropped like a mask, and his looks, eyes, and voice were charged with enthusiasm.