beautiful piece of work. I am more than pleased."

"It is a setting," said Don Luis, "which, in this country, we should
give to a relic of the True Cross."

Manvers looked quickly up. "I know, I know. It must seem to you a
piece of extravagance on my part----; but there were reasons, good
reasons. I could hardly have done less."

Don Luis bowed gravely, but said nothing. Manvers felt impelled to
further discussion. Had he been a Spaniard he would have left the
matter where it was; but he was not, so he went awkwardly on.

"It's a queer story. For some reason or another I don't care to speak
of it. The person who gave me this trinket did me--or intended me--an
immense service, at a great cost."

"She too," said Don Luis, looking at the Dolorosa, "may have had her
reasons."

"It was a woman," said Manvers, with quickening colour, "I see no harm
in saying so. I was going to tell you that she believed herself
indebted to me for some trifling attention I had been able to show her
previously. That is how I explain her giving me the crucifix. It was
her way of thanking me--a pretty way. I was touched."

Don Luis waved his hand. "It is very evident, senor caballero. Your
way of recording it is exemplary: her way, perhaps, was no less so."

"You will think me of a sentimental race," Manvers laughed, "and I
won't deny it--but it's a fact that I was touched."

Don Luis, who, throughout the conversation, had been turning the
crucifix about, now examined the inscription. He held it up to the
light that he might see it better. Manvers observed him, but did not
take the hint which was thus, rather bluntly, conveyed him. The case
once more in his breast-pocket, he saluted Don Luis and went his way.

Shortly afterwards he left Valladolid on horseback.

Perhaps a week went by, perhaps ten days; and then Don Luis had a
visitor one night in the Cafe de la Luna, a mean-looking, pale and
harassed visitor with a close-cropped head, whose eyebrows flickered
like summer fires in the sky, who would not sit down, who kept his felt
hat rolled in his hands, whose deference was extreme, and accepted as a
matter of course. He was known in Valladolid, it seemed. Pepe knew
him, called him Tormillo.

"A sus pies," was the burthen of his news so far, "a los pies de V|d|,
Senor Don Luis."

Don Luis took no sort of notice of him, but continued to smoke his
cigarette. He allowed the man to stand shuffling about for some th