has been down to the bottom of misery. 'I know a place,' he said,
'that will suit our purpose. It is among the mountains, on the
borders of Andorra. You take the train from Barcelona to Berga, the
diligencia from Berga to Organa. Between Organa and La Seo de Urgel
is a bridge called La Puente del Diabolo. I will meet you at this
bridge on foot on Thursday morning at nine o'clock. We can walk up
into the mountains together. I shall bring a small travelling clock
with me. We shall stand it on the ground between us, and when it
strikes, we fire.'"

Antonio had, in the heat of his narrative, leant forward across the
table. With quick gestures he described the whole scene, so that
Miss Cheyne could see it as it had passed before his eyes.

"There is a madness, Senorita," he went on, "which shows itself by a
thirst for blood. I looked at Bernaldez. He was sane enough, but I
think the man's heart was broken. 'It is well,' said Mateo; 'I am
your man--at the Puente del Diabolo at nine o'clock on Thursday
morning.' And mind you, Senorita, these were not Italians or
Greeks--they were a Spaniard and an American--men who mean what they
say, whether it be pleasant or the reverse."

Miss Cheyne was interested enough now. She sat, leaning one arm on
the table, and her chin in the palm of her hand. She held her lip
with her teeth, and watched the man's quick expressive face.

"We were there at nine o'clock," he went on, "that Mateo, with his
arm in a sling. We had passed the night at the hotel of the
Libertad at Organa, where we both slept well enough. What will
you?--when one is no longer young, the pulse is slow. The morning