"Mere play-acting, Ferdinand, nothing more. He wanted to get the papers back quietly if he could, and the quietest and safest way would have been to have you arrested as Carbonnell, the Carlist, and sent somewhere into the far provinces, and probably knocked on the head by the way or shot in mistake—the kind of mistake that does happen at times. His sister appears to have cut that plan short, and naturally he tells her she must get the papers back, if she could. But if she couldn’t, it didn’t follow that he wasn’t quite prepared to face you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking he will give up a jot or tittle of any plan he has, whether public or private; he never has been known to yet, and even you will never make him, strong as your case would be in any other country and against any other man. It’s part of his constitution, my dear fellow. He’s got all the energy and resource of a present day American with all the confounded pride and stiff-necked doggedness of an Old Castile noble. A rummy combination, but the devil to fight." "I shan’t give in," I said, firmly. "And that I take it your advice is that I should." Mayhew shrugged his shoulders significantly. "I’d make it different if I could. I’m very sorry, for I can guess what it means to you; but you’ve no chance;" and he shook his head, hopelessly. "Shall we go and see the chief?" "I shan’t give in," I said again; but I am free to confess that his counsel of despair had great effect upon me, and I went to the Embassy in a very despondent mood. I was closeted with the chief a considerable time, while I gave such account of my experiences as I deemed advisable, and was questioned and cross-questioned, and advised and congratulated in the customary official manner, and finally counselled to return to England. A pointed question from me drew the reply that this last advice was the result of a request from the Spanish Government, and I did not fail to see in it the hand of Quesada. My answer was an evasive one, to the effect that I would go so soon as I had wound up such private affairs as I had to conclude in Madrid. I rejoined Mayhew, feeling both ill at ease and out of temper. A half-day had passed, and I had done nothing toward effecting Sarita’s release; while the hours were flying, and no word came from Dolores. My apparent helplessness in other respects increased my anxiety to hear that she had been successful with her brother; for I was fast coming round to Mayhew’s gloomy view of the position. Then came another complication. When we went to the Hotel de l’Opera, I found there an urgent summons from the Palace. News of my arrest and liberation had reached the young King, and he desired me to go to the Palace that afternoon. I scribbled a note to Dolores Quesada, telling her I could not wait for news from her after three o’clock—the hour appointed for the interview, and sent Mercy with it, Mayhew accompanying her.