he completely sank his own. He never sought to be all things to all men, and yet he came near to the accomplishment of that hard task. Sir John was not a sympathetic man, he merely mistook life for a court of justice, and arraigned all human nature in the witness-box, with the inward conviction that this should by rights be exchanged for the felon's dock.

With Concha he was as simple, as direct, and as unsophisticated as the old priest himself, and now took his leave without attempting to disguise the fact that he had accomplished a foreset purpose.

Without difficulty he found the small stationer's shop next the synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, and bade the stationer, a spectacled individual with upright hair and the air of seeking something in the world which is not usually behind a counter, take his card to Señor Larralde. At first the stationer pretended ignorance of the name, but on discovering that Sir John had not sufficient Spanish to conduct a conversation of intrigue, disappeared into a back room, whence emanated a villainous smell of cooking.

While Sir John waited in the little shop Father Concha walked to the Plazuela de l'Iglesia Vieja, which small square, overhanging the Tagus and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted, except at midday, when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage in a grave game of bowls. Concha sat, book in hand. opened honestly at the office of the day and hour, and read no word. Instead, he stared across the gorge at the brown bank of land which commands the city, and renders it useless as a fortress in the days of modern artillery. He sat and stared grimly, and thought perhaps of those secret springs within the human heart that make one man successful and unhappy, while another who, possessing brains and ability and energy, yet fails in life, and is perhaps none the less the happier of the two, for it had happened to Father Concha, as it may happen to writer and reader at any moment, to meet one who in in

dividuality bears a resemblance to that self which we never know and yet are ever conscious of.

Sir John Pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman's invitation to step up-stairs with something approaching alacrity, so easily is the interest of a lonely man aroused.

Larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled by cigarette ash. He had the unkempt and pallid look of one who has not seen the sun or breathed air for days, for, as Concepcion had said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter while others played the bolder game at the front. Larralde had, in fact, not stirred abroad for nearly a week.

"Well, señor," he said, with a false air of bravado, "how fares it with your little undertaking?"

"That," replied Sir Jolin, "is past and paid for, and I have another matter for your consideration."

Sir John's manner had changed. He spoke as one having authority, and Larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a past payment.

"Ah!" he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of indifference.

"On the one hand," continued Sir John judicially, "I come to make you an offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the other hand, Señor Larralde, I know enough to make things particularly unpleasant for you." Larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the match-box. His thoughts seemed to amuse him.

"I have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your possession again. I do not know the contents of this letter, and I cannot say that I am at all interested in it, but a friend of mine is particularly anxious to have possession of it for a short space of time. I have, unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary."

Larralde's eyes flashed through the smoke.

"You are about to offer me money; be careful, señor," he said hotly; and the lawyer smiled.

"Be careful that it is enough," he

"For her, madame, as for all women, there would be no politics if there were no politicians," the priest replied.

This afternoon Julia was more restless than ever. Larralde had not been to see her for many days, and had only written a hurried note from time to time, in answer to her urgent request, telling her that he was well and in no danger.

She now no longer knew whether he was in Toledo or not, but had sufficient knowledge of the schemes in which he was engaged to be aware of the fact that these were coming to a crisis. Esteban Larralde had, indeed, told her more than was either necessary or discreet, and it was his vanity that led him into this imprudence. We are all ready enough to impart information which will show our neighbors that we are more important than we appear.

After a broiling day the sun was now beginning to lose a little of his terrific power, and in the shade of the patio, upon which the windows of Julia's room opened, the air was quite cool and pleasant. A fountain plashed continuously in a little basin that had been white six centuries ago, when the Moors had brought the marble across the Gulf of Lyons to build it. The very sound of the water was a relief to overstrained nerves, and seemed to diminish the tension of the shimmering atmosphere.

Julia was alone, and barely made pretence to read the book she held in her hand. From her seat she could see the bell suspended on the opposite wall of the courtyard, of which the deep voice at any time of day or night had the power of stirring her heart in a sudden joy. At last the desired sound broke the silence of the great house, and Julia stood breathless at the window, while the servant leisurely crossed the patio and threw open the great door, large enough to admit carriage and pair. It was not Larralde, but Father Concha, brought hither by a note he had received from

a

noon.

"I shall have the letter in a week from now," the Englishman had written.

"Which will be too late," commented Concha pessimistically.

The señora was out, they told him, but the señorita had remained at home. "It is the señorita I desire to see."

And Julia, at the window above, heard the remark with a sinking heart. The air seemed to be weighted with the suggestion of calamity. Concha had the manner of one bringing bad news. She forgot that this was his usual mien.

"Ah, my child!" he said, coming into the room a minute later and sitting down rather wearily.

"What?" she asked, her two hands at her breast.

He glanced at her beneath his brows. The wind was in the north-east, dry and tingling. The sun had worn a coppery hue all day. Such matters affect women and those who are in mental distress. After such a day as had at last worn to evening the mind is at a great tension, the nerves are strained. It is at such times that men fly into sudden anger and whip out the knife. At such times women are reckless, and the stories of human lives take sudden turns.

Concha knew that he had this woman at a disadvantage.

"What?" he echoed; "I wish I knew. I wish at times I was no priest." "Why?"

“Because I could help you better. Sometimes it is the man and not the priest who is the truest friend."

"Why do you speak like this?" she cried. "Is there danger? What has happened?"

"You know best, my child, danger; you know what is happen."

if there is likely to

Julia stood looking at him with hard eyes, the eyes of one in mortal fear. "You have always been my friend," she said slowly-"my best friend." "Yes; a woman's lover is never her best friend."

"Has anything happened to Esteban?"

The priest did not answer at once, but paused, reflecting, and dusting his sleeve, where there was always some snuff requiring attention at such mo

ments.

"I know so little," he said. "I am no politician. What can I say? What can I advise you when I am in the dark? And the time is slipping byslipping by."

"I cannot tell you," she answered. turning away and looking out of the window.

"You cannot tell the priest; tell the man."

Then suddenly she reached the end of her endurance. Standing with her back toward him she told her story, and Concha listened with a still, breathless avidity, as one who, having long sought knowledge, finds it at last when it seemed out of reach. The little fountain plashed in the courtyard below, a frog in the basin among the water-lilies croaked sociably, while the priest and the beautiful woman in the room above made history, for it is not always in kings' palaces nor yet in parliaments that the story of the world is shaped.

Concha spoke no word, and Julia, having begun, left nothing unsaid, but told him every detail in a slow, mechanical voice, as if bidden thereto by a stronger will than her own.

"Because happiness is so rare, that I hate to see it wasted," he answered, going toward the door with a grim laugh.

He passed out of the room and crossed the patio slowly. Then, when the great door had closed behind him, he gathered up the skirts of his cassock and hurried down the narrow street. In such thoroughfares as were deserted he ran with the speed and endurance of a spare, hard-living man. Woman-like, Julia had, after all, done things by half. She had timed her confession, as it seemed, too late.

At the hotel they told the padre that General Vincente was at dinner and could not be disturbed.

"He sees no one," the servant said.

"You do not know who I am," said Concha, in an irony which under the circumstances he alone could enjoy. Then he passed up the stairs and bade the waiter begone.

"But I carry the general's dessert," protested the man.

"No," said Concha, half to himself; "I have that."

Vincente was, indeed, at the table with Estella. He looked up as the priest entered, fingering a cigarette delicately.

"How soon can you take the road?" asked Concha abruptly.

"Ten minutes, the time for a cup of coffee," was the answer, given with a

"Then order your carriage."

Vincente looked at his old friend, and the smile never left his lips, though his eyes were grave enough. It was hard to say whether aught on earth could disturb this man's equanimity. Then the general rose and went to the window, which opened upon the courtyard. In the quiet corner, near the rain-tank, where a vine grows upon trellis-work, the dusty travelling-carriage stood, and upon the step of it, eating a simple meal of bread and dried figs, sat the man who had the reputation of being the fastest driver in Spain.

"In ten minutes, my good Manuel," said the general.