so little about her, that I could only conclude one thing. You
know, Senorita--when a man will not talk of a woman--well, it
assuredly means something. But there was, it appears, another man--
this man, I grind my teeth to tell you of it--he was a priest. One
Bernaldez, whom we had both known in Cuba. He had, it appears, come
over to Spain in ordinary dress; for he was too well known to travel
as Bernaldez, the priest. He was a fine man--so much I will say for
him. The Englishwoman was, no doubt, beautiful. Bernaldez met her.
She did not know that he was a priest."

Antonio paused, shrugged his shoulders and spread out his arms.

"The devil did the rest, Senorita. And she? Did she care for him?
Ah--one never knows with women."

"Perhaps they do not always know themselves," suggested Miss Cheyne,
without meeting her companion's eyes.

"Perhaps that is so, Senorita. At all events, Mateo went to these
two, when they were together. Mateo was always quick and very calm.
He faced Bernaldez, and he told the woman. Then he left them. And
I found him in Barcelona, two days afterwards, living at the Hotel
of the Four Nations, like one in his sleep. 'If Bernaldez wants
me,' he said, 'he knows where to find me.' And the next day
Bernaldez came to us, where we sat in front of the Cafe of the Liceo
on the Rambla. 'Mateo,' he said, 'you will have to fight me.' And
Mateo nodded his head. 'With the revolver.' Mateo looked up with
his dry smile. 'I will take you at that game,' he said, 'for nuts'-
-in the American fashion, Senorita--one of their strange sad jokes.
Then Bernaldez sat down--his eyes were hollow; he spoke like one who