the distance. Luckily, however, there
was little or no doubt where its occupants would put up.

Though the Madrid house of the Carmonas had been burned down ten years ago
(since when the Duchess had made her home at the old palace in Seville),
there was scarcely a Continental paper which had not described the
splendours of the Duke's apartment in one of the finest modern flat-houses
of Madrid. Naturally, he would entertain his mother and guests there, so
that it would be difficult to slip away with them unknown to us.

The thing I did not know was, how long he meant to stay in the capital;
but as he must show Seville in Holy Week, and later perhaps other places
in the south of Spain, to Lady Vale-Avon and Monica before their return to
Madrid for the Royal Wedding, it was almost certain that he would go on in
a couple of days.

The O'Donnels recommended to us the Hotel Ingles, the best Spanish hotel
in Madrid, as well as the most amusing, and it was with a heart
comparatively light that I looked forward to a first sight of my country's
capital. How would it compare with Paris, with Vienna, with London? What
adventures awaited me there? What was to be the next pass in this queer
duel with Carmona?

But I need not have searched for comparisons. As we rushed into Madrid
without threading through any suburbs,--since suburbs the city has none,--I
discovered that it bore no resemblance to any other place.

We flashed from open country to a shady park, set about with buvettes and
beer gardens; ran through a massive gateway, and were in the heart of
Madrid. Electric trams whizzed confusingly round us, and far above the
hubbub of such traffic loomed proudly a hill crowned with an enormous
palace. There was no need to ask if it were the royal palace, for it was
essentially Royal, a house worthy of a king.

My father had fought to put Don Carlos there--Don Carlos, far away now in
Venice; but with all my admiration for his brave son Don Jaime, my
sympathies flowed loyally towards the young dweller on those heights.

We swept under and round the palace hill, as Colonel O'Donnel directed. In
spite of his instructions, however, Dick lost the way twice, plunging into
wrong turnings; but the second time he did this it seemed that San
Cristobal--whose medal now adorned our Gloria and shaped our destinies--must
have twisted the steering-wheel. There, before the door of an official
building guarded by sentries, panted the grey car of