“That Jacobin!” Doña Rita was immensely surprised, as she might well have been. Then resigned to the incomprehensible: “Yes,” she breathed out, “what did you do with him?” “I put him to bed in the studio.” How lovely she was with the effort of close attention depicted in the turn of her head and in her whole face honestly trying to approve. “And then?” she inquired. “Then I came in here to face calmly the necessity of doing away with a human life. I didn’t shirk it for a moment. That’s what a short twelvemonth has brought me to. Don’t think I am reproaching you, O blind force! You are justified because you _are_. Whatever had to happen you would not even have heard of it.” Horror darkened her marvellous radiance. Then her face became utterly blank with the tremendous effort to understand. Absolute silence reigned in the house. It seemed to me that everything had been said now that mattered in the world; and that the world itself had reached its ultimate stage, had reached its appointed end of an eternal, phantom-like silence. Suddenly Doña Rita raised a warning finger. I had heard nothing and shook my head; but she nodded hers and murmured excitedly, “Yes, yes, in the fencing-room, as before.” In the same way I answered her: “Impossible! The door is locked and Therese has the key.” She asked then in the most cautious manner, “Have you seen Therese to-night?” “Yes,” I confessed without misgiving. “I left her making up the fellow’s bed when I came in here.” “The bed of the Jacobin?” she said in a peculiar tone as if she were humouring a lunatic. “I think I had better tell you he is a Spaniard—that he seems to know you from early days. . . .” I glanced at her face, it was extremely tense, apprehensive. For myself I had no longer any doubt as to the man and I hoped she would reach the correct conclusion herself. But I believe she was too distracted and worried to think consecutively. She only seemed to feel some terror in the air. In very pity I bent down and whispered carefully near her ear, “His name is Ortega.”