'Ah!'

'No,' pursued Concepcion. 'And yet it is simple. In Algeciras I
have a wife. It is well that a man should travel at times. So,' he
paused and bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite
condescension, 'so--we take the road together.'

'As long as you are pleased, Senor Vara,' said Conyngham, 'I am sure
I can but feel honoured. You know I have no money.'

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.

'What matter?' he said. 'What matter? We can keep an account--a
mere piece of paper--so: "Concepcion Vara, of Algeciras, in account
current with F. Conyngham; Englishman. One month's wages at one
hundred pesetas." It is simple.'

'Very,' acquiesced Conyngham. 'It is only when pay-day comes that
things will get complicated.'

Concepcion laughed.

'You are a caballero after my own heart,' he said. 'We shall enjoy
ourselves in Madrid. I see that.'

Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and Julia
Barenna's danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him.
Ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of
the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.