The man gave a sickly grin and opened his mouth to speak, but his
jaw dropped instead, and he passed across that frontier which is
watched by no earthly sentinel.

'This gentleman,' said the quiet-eyed man, whose guide had thus paid
for his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word of command,
'is a stranger to me--an Englishman, I think.'

'Yes,' answered Conyngham.

The old soldier looked from one to the other.

'That may be,' he said, 'but he sleeps in Ronda prison to-night.
To-morrow the Captain-General will see to it.'

'I have a letter to the Captain-General,' said Conyngham, who drew
from his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the pink
scented envelope given to him by the man called Larralde at
Algeciras. He had forgotten its existence, and put it back in his
pocket with a smile. Having found that for which he sought, he gave
it to the soldier, who read the address in silence and returned the
letter.

'You I know,' he said, turning to the man at Conyngham's side, who
merely shrugged his shoulders. 'And Concepcion Vara, we all know
him.'

Concepcion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular air
with the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect
innocence. The old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his