Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street running parallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. There he learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he could not see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules. Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not in her province. But she knew the rules. She did not return and in her place came Father Muro, the spiritual adviser of the school; Juanita's own confessor. He was a stout man whose face would have been pleasant had it followed the lines that Nature had laid down. But there was something amiss with Father Muro--the usual lack of naturalness in those who lead a life that is against Nature. Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see Juanita. It was not within his province, but he knew that it was against the rules. Then he remembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the Count de Sarrion. It was lying on the table at the refectory door, where letters intended for the post were usually placed. It was doubtless from Juanita. He would fetch it. Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face, while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to want something they could not have. "Yes," said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente." He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. "Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked. "No, my son. Why should I?" "Why, indeed?" And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the door open rather obsequiously. CHAPTER XIII THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVE On returning to the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de la Constitution, Sarrion threw down on the table before Marcos the note that Father Muro had given him. He made no comment. "My dear uncle," the letter ran, "I am writing to advise you of my decision to go into religion. I am prompted to communicate this to you without delay by the remembrance of your many kindnesses to me. You will, I know, agree with me that this step can only be for my happiness in this world and the next. Your grateful niece.--JUANITA DE MOGENTE." Marcos read the letter carefully, and then seeking in his pocket, produced the note that Juanita had passed to him through the hole in the wall of the convent school at Saragossa. It seemed that he carried with him always the scrap of paper that she had hidden within her dress until the moment that she gave it to him. He laid the two letters side by side and compared them. "The writing is the writing of Juanita," he said; "but the words are not. They are spelt correctly!"