"One’s sister learns the art of making excuses, and a man with only one hand can surely plead privilege." And in that dress I started, leaving him only a moment while I secured my revolver and some ammunition. He drove me right to the hotel, and did not leave me until he had actually heard me ask for Miss Carbonnell’s and Mrs. Curwen’s rooms, and looked after me as the waiter led me away. A glance at my watch showed me it was then nearly half-past four, but I felt compelled to carry on the farce so far as to go to Mrs. Curwen’s room, perilously short though the time was growing. *CHAPTER XV* *THE ABDUCTION* It is an experience which I expect most of us have known, to have to clap on suddenly the mummer’s mask at a moment of serious crisis, and to play the fool just when one’s whole mind and thoughts are claimed by really tragic issues. That was my case when I went to Mrs. Curwen’s on parting from Quesada. The widow was alone, and was annoyed that I had not been to see her on the previous day, and met me consequently in a mood of satirical banter. Looking at me as though she did not recognise me, she said— "Carbonnell, Carbonnell, I seem to have heard the name; but surely it is so long since I saw a man of the name. Are you Mr. Carbonnell?" "I believe I am," I returned, gravely. "And I was actually going to shake hands with you, I think." "I don’t think you can be; because I am sure the Mr. Carbonnell I knew would never have remained away long enough for me to forget his face." "Ah, you are thinking of Lascelles Carbonnell. I am Ferdinand, his brother, you know." "I am very angry with you, and that’s the truth," she cried, laughing, and colouring at the little thrust. "Lord Glisfoyle would never have behaved in such a way. If this is how Madrid affects people, I wish I’d never come. But what’s the matter with your hand?" "I have come to have a very difficult surgical operation performed by you or Mercy. Where is she?" She came in as I spoke; and seeing my arm in a sling her face clouded, as she kissed me and asked the reason. "Are you really hurt?" asked Mrs. Curwen, doubtingly, sympathy struggling with annoyance. "You don’t look ill." "Does a man wear this sort of ornament for fun?" and I drew the bandaged hand from the sling. "There’s no accounting for what a man will do—in Madrid," she retorted, with a sniff of battle and a toss of the head. "Angela!" cried Mercy. "What is the matter, Nand?" "He wants us to perform what he calls a ’surgical operation,’ Mercy." "The matter is not very serious, I believe," I answered, in deference to the pain on my sister’s face, but seeing now how to punish Mrs. Curwen, I added: "They tell me, indeed, that if the bandages are removed very carefully and a particular kind of massage employed, I shall recover the use of the fingers quickly."