'That is all,' replied the soldier, who did not seem at all nervous now. 'And we have killed no one.'

'Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box there,' said Concepçion judicially. This is no time for prayer. Just where the neck joins the shoulder-that is a good place.' And a sudden silence reigned upon the box.

Pull the carriage to the bank,' commanded Concepcion. There is no need for the English Excellency to wet his feet. He might catch a cold.'

They all made their way to the bank where, in the dim moonlight, one man sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite still, upon the pebbles. The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside him, while Concepcion patted his foe kindly on the back.

'It is well,' he said, 'you have swallowed water. You will be sick, and then you will be well. But if you move from that spot I will let the water out another way.'

And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned to help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window.

'Whom have you with you?' asked Conyngham.

'Two honest soldiers of General Vincente's division. You see, señor, you have good friends.'

'Yes, I see that.'

'One of them,' said Concepcion meaningly, 'is at Toledo at the moment, journeying after you.'

'Ah !'

'The Señor Pleydell.'

'Then we will go back to meet him.'

'I thought so,' said Concepcion.

CHAPTER XXI

A CROSS-EXAMINATION.

Wherein I am false I am honest-not true to be true.'

'I WILL sing you a contrabandista song,' said Concepçion, as the party rode towards Toledo in the moonlight.

they sing when the venture has been successful. it any dark night in the streets of Gaucin.'

The song we—
You may hear

'Sing,' said the older soldier, if it is in your lungs. For us-we prefer to travel silent.'

Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist. rider had been dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front. The carriage had been left behind at the Venta, where no questions were asked, and the injured men revived readily enough.

'It is well,' answered Concepçion, in no way abashed. 'I will sing. In Andaluzia we can all sing. The pigs sing better there than the men of Castile.'

It was after midnight when the party rode past the church of the Cristo de la Vega, and faced the long hill that leads to the gate Del Cambron. Above them towered the city of Toledo— silent and dreamlike. Concepçion had ceased singing now, and the hard breathing of the horses alone broke the silence. The Tagus, emerging here from rocky fastness, flowed noiselessly away to the west-a gleaming ribbon laid across the breast of the night. In the summer it is no uncommon thing for travellers to take the road by night in Spain, and although many doubtless heard the clatter of horses' feet on the polished cobble stones of the city, none rose from bed to watch the horsemen pass.

At that time Toledo possessed, and indeed to the present day can boast of, but one good inn-a picturesque old house in the Plaza de Zocodover, overhung by the mighty Alcazar. Here Cervantes must have eaten and Lazarillo de Tormes no doubt caroused. Here those melancholy men and mighty humorists must have delighted the idler by their talk. Concepcion soon aroused the sleeping porter, and the great doors being thrown open, the party passed into the courtyard without quitting the saddle.

'It is,' said Concepçion, an English Excellency and his suite.'

We have another such in the house,' answered the sleepy doorkeeper, though he travels with but one servant.'

'We know that, my friend, which is the reason why we patronise your dog-hole of an inn. See that the two Excellencies breakfast together at a table apart in the morning.'

'You will have matters to speak about with the Señor Pleydell in the morning,' said Concepçion, as he unpacked Conyngham's luggage a few minutes later.

'Yes, I should like to speak to Señor Pleydell.'

'And I,' said Concepcion, turning round with a brush in his hand, should like a moment's conversation with Señor Larralde.' 'Ah!'

'Yes, Excellency, he is in this matter too. Larralde is so modest-so modest! He always background.'

But the Señor remains in the

In the tents of Kedar men sleep as sound as those who lie on soft pillows, and Conyngham was late astir the next morning. Sir John Pleydell was, it transpired, already at his breakfast, and had ordered his carriage for an early hour to take the road to Talavera. It was thus evident that Sir John knew nothing of the arrival of his fellow-countryman at midnight.

The cold face of the great lawyer wore a look of satisfaction as he sat at a small table in the patio of the hotel and drank his coffee. Conyngham watched him for a moment from the balcony of the courtyard, himself unseen, while Concepcion stood within his master's bedroom, and rubbed his brown hands together in anticipation of a dramatic moment. Conyngham passed down the stone steps and crossed the patio with a gay smile. Sir John recognised him as he emerged from the darkness of the stairway, but his face betrayed neither surprise nor fear. There was a look in the grey eyes, however, that seemed to betoken doubt. Such a look, a man might wear who had long travelled with assurance upon a road which he took to be the right one, and then at a turning found himself in a strange country with no landmark to guide him.

Sir John Pleydell had always outwitted his fellows. He had, in fact, been what is called a successful man-a little cleverer, a little more cunning than those around him.

He looked up now at Conyngham, who was drawing forward a chair to the neighbouring table, and the cold eye, which had been the dread of many a criminal, wavered.

'The waiter has set my breakfast near to yours,' said Conyngham, unconcernedly seating himself.

And Concepcion in the balcony above cursed the English for a cold-blooded race. This was not the sort of meeting he had anticipated. He could throw a knife very prettily, and gave a short sigh of regret as he turned to his peaceful duties.

Conyngham examined the simple fare provided for him, and then looked towards his companion with that cheerfulness which is too rare in this world; for it is born of a great courage, and outward circumstances cannot affect it. Sir John Pleydell had lost all interest in his meal, and was looking keenly at Conyngham-dissecting, as it were, his face, probing his mind, searching through the outward manner of the man, and running helplessly against a motive which he failed to understand.

'I have in my long experience found that all men may be divided into two classes,' he said, acidly.

'Fools and knaves?' suggested Conyngham.

'You have practised at the bar,' parenthetically. Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.

'Unsuccessfully-anybody can do that.'

'Which are you—a fool or a knave?' asked Sir John.

And suddenly Conyngham pitied him. For no man is proof against the quick sense of pathos aroused by the sight of man, or dumb animal, baffled. At the end of his life Sir John had engaged upon the greatest quest of it-an unworthy quest no doubt, but his heart was in it—and he was an old man, though he bore his years well enough.

'Perhaps that is the mistake you have always made,' said Conyngham, gravely. Perhaps men are not to be divided into two classes. There may be some who only make mistakes, Sir John.'

advocate, as those who This was not his own served his friend so

Unconsciously he had lapsed into the have once played the part are apt to do. cause, but Geoffrey Horner's. And he thoroughly that for the moment he really was the man whose part he had elected to play. Sir John Pleydell was no mean foe. Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in turning aside the public suspicion, and in the eternal march of events, of which the sound is louder as the world grows older and hollower, the murder of Alfred Pleydell had been forgotten by all save his father. Conyngham saw the danger, and never thought to avoid

it. What had been undertaken half in jest would be carried out in deadly earnest.

'Mistakes,' said Sir John sceptically. In dealing with the seamy side of life men come to believe that it is all stitches.

'Which they may pass the rest of their lives in regretting.' Sir John looked sharply at his companion, with suspicion dawning in his eyes again. It was Conyngham's tendency to overplay his part. Later, when he became a soldier, and found that path in life for which he was best fitted, his superior officers and the cooler tacticians complained that he was over eager, and in battle out-paced the men he led.

'Then you see now that it was a mistake?' suggested Sir John. In cross-examinations the suggestions of Sir John Pleydell are remembered in certain courts of justice to this day.

'Of course.'

'To have mixed yourself in such an affair at all?'

'Yes.'

Sir John seemed to be softening, and Conyngham began to see a way out of this difficulty which had never suggested itself to him before.

'Such mistakes have to be paid for-and the law assesses the price.'

Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.

'It is easy enough to say you are sorry-the law can make no allowance for regret.'

Conyngham turned his attention to his breakfast, deeming it useless to continue the topic.

'It was a mistake to attend the meeting at Durham-you admit that?' continued Sir John.

'Yes-I admit that, if it is any satisfaction to you.'

'Then it was worse than a mistake to actually lead the men out to my house for the purpose of breaking the windows. It was almost a crime, I would suggest to you, as a soldier for the moment, to lead a charge up a steep hill against a body of farm labourers and others entrenched behind a railing.'

'That is a mere matter of opinion.'

'And yet you did that,' said Sir John. If you are going to break the law you should insure success before embarking on your undertaking.'

Conyngham made no answer.

'It was also a stupid error, if I may say so, to make your way