XLII.



It was not Tremolino's fault that the syndicate depended so much on
the wit and wisdom and the information of Dona Rita. She had taken
a little furnished house on the Prado for the good of the cause--
Por el Rey! She was always taking little houses for somebody's
good, for the sick or the sorry, for broken-down artists, cleaned-
out gamblers, temporarily unlucky speculators--vieux amis--old
friends, as she used to explain apologetically, with a shrug of her
fine shoulders.

Whether Don Carlos was one of the "old friends," too, it's hard to
say. More unlikely things have been heard of in smoking-rooms.
All I know is that one evening, entering incautiously the salon of
the little house just after the news of a considerable Carlist
success had reached the faithful, I was seized round the neck and
waist and whirled recklessly three times round the room, to the
crash of upsetting furniture and the humming of a valse tune in a
warm contralto voice.

When released from the dizzy embrace, I sat down on the carpet--
suddenly, without affectation. In this unpretentious attitude I
became aware that J. M. K. B. had followed me into the room,
elegant, fatal, correct and severe in a white tie and large shirt-
front. In answer to his politely sinister, prolonged glance of
inquiry, I overheard Dona Rita murmuring, with some confusion and
annoyance, "Vous etes bete mon cher. Voyons! Ca n'a aucune
consequence." Well content in this case to be of no particular