My father was at that moment called away on some political business and our conference broke up. No opportunity of renewing it came in the next busy days of preparation; and before the week was out I was on my way to Madrid, to the new career which promised no more than the humdrum routine of official work; but which, from the very instant of my arrival was destined to negative so sensationally all my anticipations. My very entrance upon the scene of Madrid was indeed through a veritable gate of hazard. *CHAPTER II* *THE GATE OF HAZARD* What Lascelles had termed my years of vagrancy had had one educational effect—I understood the art of travelling comfortably. I thoroughly enjoyed my trip across France, and as I did not intend to take my profession too seriously, I broke my journey at Paris to renew some old and pleasant associations. I learnt a piece of news there which gave me much satisfaction. An old ’Varsity friend of mine, Silas Mayhew, the companion of many an unsacred adventure, had been removed from Paris to the Madrid Embassy; and the renewal of our old comradeship was an anticipation of genuine pleasure, for our friendship was thoroughly sound, wind and limb. One incident prior to my leaving London I ought perhaps to mention—the little comedy of leave-taking with Mrs. Curwen. She and my sister had fixed it up between them, and I learned the shameless manner in which Mercy had been bribed to bring it about. After my semi-understanding with my father I felt myself in a measure bound not to do anything to interfere with the family scheme, and I told Mercy that I should not even call on Mrs. A.B.C.—our name for the widow. She betrayed me to her friend, however, and when I went into her sitting-room for an agreed cup of tea and a chat on the day before that of my departure, Mrs. Curwen was there chatting unconcernedly with Mercy, whose face was guiltily tell-tale in expression. "What an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Ferdinand," exclaimed the widow, laughing. "By whom?" said I, as we shook hands. "What a thing it is to be a diplomatist, and to be able to say so much in just two words. But I can be frank. I mean unexpected to you, of course. Mercy told me you were actually going away on your wanderings without saying good-bye to me—and I wasn’t going to stand that. When some stupid mountain or other wouldn’t go to Mahomet, Mahomet went to the mountain—like the very sensible person he was. And it was all the same in the end." "That ’stupid mountain’ had no sister to give it away, Mrs. Curwen." "Mercy’s just the dearest friend I have in the world. And now sit down and don’t be disagreeable, and we’ll have a jolly cosy little chat together, and you shall hear the news and advise us. What’s the good of being an ambassador if you can’t advise us?"