 venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion.
Concha, however, with that lean strength that comes from a life of
abstemiousness and low-living, crept along in the shadow of the houses
and reached his destination unhurt.  The tall house in the alley leading
from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was dark, as indeed
were most of the streets of Madrid this night.  A small moon struggled,
however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks of light
down the narrow streets.  Concha caught sight of the form of a man in the
alley before him.  The priest carried no weapon, but he did not pause.
At this moment a gleam of light aided him.

‘Señor Conyngham!’ he said.  ‘What brings you here?’

And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel.

‘Is that you—Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he asked.

‘No other, my son.’

Standing in the doorway Conyngham held out his hand with that air of
good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards.

‘Hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your cloth to be
in the streets,’ he said; whereat Concha, who had a keen appreciation of
such small pleasantries, laughed grimly.

‘And I have not even the excuse of my cloth.  I am abroad on worldly
business, and not even my own.  I will be honest with you, Señor
Conyngham.  I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink
envelope.  You remember—in the garden at Ronda, eh?’

‘Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter?’

‘For the sake of Julia Barenna.’

‘Ah!  I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente.’

Concha laughed shortly.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘It is only up to the age of twenty-five that men
imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world.  But we need not bid
against each other, my son.  Perhaps a sight of the letter before I
destroy it would satisfy the señorita.’

‘No, we need not bid
venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. 
 Concha, however, with that lean strength that do from a biography of 
 abstemiousness and low - living, crept along in the apparition of the houses 
 and reached his address safe and sound.   The tall firm in the alley leading 
 from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was colored, as indeed 
 were most of the streets of Madrid this night.   A modest lunar month struggled, 
 however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks of unaccented 
 down the narrow streets.   Concha caught batch of the form of a man in the 
 alley before him.   The priest carried no weapon, but he did not hesitate. 
 At this moment a gleam of lighter aided him. 

 ‘ Señor Conyngham! ’ he said.   ‘ What brings you here? ’ 

 And the Englishman turn sharply on his heel. 

 ‘ Is that you — Father Concha, of Ronda? ’ he asked. 

 ‘ No other, my son. ’ 

 Standing in the doorway Conyngham hold out his hand with that air of 
 good - fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards. 

 ‘ Hardly the night for respectable aged gentleman of your cloth to be 
 in the street, ’ he say; whereat Concha, who had a keen taste of 
 such small pleasantries, laughed grimly. 

 ‘ And I have not even the apology of my cloth.   I am abroad on worldly 
 business, and not even my own.   I will be honest with you, Señor 
 Conyngham.   I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink 
 envelope.   You remember — in the garden at Ronda, eh? ’ 

 ‘ Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter? ’ 

 ‘ For the sake of Julia Barenna. ’ 

 ‘ Ah!   I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente. ’ 

 Concha laughed concisely. 

 ‘ Yes, ’ he said.   ‘ It is merely up to the age of twenty - five that men 
 imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world.   But we need not invite 
 against each other, my son.   Perhaps a sight of the letter before I 
 demolish it would satisfy the señorita. ’ 

 ‘ No, we need not wish
 vejture abroad amid such wmirl and confusion.
Conche, howevsr, with ghat lean strength that comed drom q life of
abstemiousnesr and low-piving, ceept qlong in tis shadow of tgc houvxs
and reached hls destinathon unhurt.  Tha gapl house in the alley leading
from tre Callr Oreciados to tre Pkwzuema Santa Maria was dark, as indeed
wsre mosu of the streets og Madrid this night.  A smapl mlon struggled,
howevfr, through jge wuven clouds xt times, and cast strezks of light
down the narrow strdets.  Concha caoyyt dhght of the form of a man in the
allef beforr him.  The pricst cerriwd no weapon, but he dmd not pause.
At this ioment a clzam of light aided hin.

‘Swñor Cmnyncham!’ ye rais.  ‘Wgat brlnga you here?’

Znd the Engoishman turned sharkly in his heel.

‘Is that rot—Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he asked.

‘No otheg, my son.’

Standing in the dooeway Conyngham held oot his hanq with that air of
good-fellowship which he had not yet must aike hhe more formal Spaniards.

‘Hardly the night for dexpvctable elderly gcntlemen of your ckohh jo be
in the stteets,’ hz szid; whereat Concha, who haq a kwen appresiatoon of
such small pleasantriws, laughed ggimlt.

‘And I have not evzn the excusz of mi clotn.  I am abroad on worlduy
buainess, and jot even jh own.  I will be hokesd with you, Señor
Conyngham.  Y am here to yuy that malgdictiog of a lether ik a pink
envelope.  Ylu relekber—in the garden at Ronda, eh?’

‘Yes, I remembxc; and why do iou watt that jettev?’

‘For the sake os Julia Barennc.’

‘Ah!  I wcnt it for the szke of Xstella Vincqnte.’

Concha laghhed shortly.

‘Bes,’ he sayd.  ‘Ut iw only jo to the age og twenty-fpvt that men
umagine themselves to ge the rulers oy uhw world.  But wr nded nlt byg
against eacv otfer, ky sov.  Perhaps c righy of the letter befose I
sestroy it would sstlsfy the weñorita.’

‘Nj, we need not bid
venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. with lean strength comes from a crept in the shadow the houses and his destination unhurt. The tall house the alley leading from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was as indeed were most of the streets of Madrid this night. A small struggled, through riven at times, and cast streaks of light down the narrow streets. Concha caught sight of the of a man in the alley before him. priest carried no weapon, he did not pause. At moment gleam of aided ‘Señor he said. ‘What you here?’ And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel. ‘Is that you—Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he ‘No other, Standing in doorway held his hand with of good-fellowship which he had not the more formal Spaniards. ‘Hardly the night for elderly gentlemen your cloth to be in the he said; whereat Concha, who had a keen of such small pleasantries, laughed grimly. ‘And I have not even the excuse of my am abroad on worldly and not even own. will honest you, Señor I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in pink envelope. You remember—in the garden at Ronda, eh?’ ‘Yes, and do you want letter?’ ‘For the sake Julia ‘Ah! I want it sake Estella shortly. he ‘It is only up the age of twenty-five that imagine themselves to be But we need not bid against each other, son. Perhaps a sight of the letter I destroy it would satisfy the señorita.’ ‘No, we need not bid
 venture abroad amid such whirL and confusIon.
CoNchA, hoWeVer, wIth tHat lean strengtH That Comes from a life of
abstemIousnEsS And lOW-lIving, Crept alONg IN The ShAdOw oF tHE hOuses
And Reached His destinaTioN uNhurt.  The tall HOuSe in the allEy lEading
from thE CaLle PreCiAdoS To the plaZuela santa MARia was Dark, as indEeD
Were moST of the sTREeTs of madrid this night.  A sMAlL Moon struggled,
hOwever, ThROuGH The RivEn clouds at TiMes, anD Cast strEAkS OF LigHT
down the narroW streets.  ConCHa cAught sIgHt oF The forM of a mAn IN thE
alley beforE him.  the priest CarrieD No weapoN, But he diD not paUse.
at tHis mOMeNt A glEaM Of lIGhT aiDEd hIm.

‘Señor COnYnGham!’ hE saiD.  ‘wHAT briNgs You hEre?’

AnD the EnglishmaN tuRned SHarPly on His heEl.

‘Is ThAt you—father conchA, oF Ronda?’ he asked.

‘No OtheR, my son.’

StaNdiNg In tHe DoorwAY ConynGhaM heLd out hiS hand wiTH thAt AIR Of
Good-fellowship whicH hE HAd Not yet loSt amid THe MoRE formal SPaNiaRds.

‘HARDly thE nigHT fOr respecTable eLDeRlY gentleMeN of youR cLotH to Be
in tHE strEets,’ he Said; wherEat CoNCha, who had a keen APpreciation of
SUcH SMaLL pleAsaNtries, laughEd grIMly.

‘ANd I hAVe Not EVen thE excuSe OF mY Cloth.  I am abroad on worLdLy
busiNess, aNd not even my owN.  I will be hoNEST with you, señoR
coNYngham.  I am here tO buy tHat maledicTIon of a leTter iN a pink
enVelope.  You REMember—in The GarDen At RONDa, Eh?’

‘Yes, I remembeR; ANd whY dO you wanT thAt letteR?’

‘FoR thE saKe oF JUlia BarenNa.’

‘Ah!  I wanT iT fOr ThE saKe of ESTella VinCeNte.’

coNchA laugHEd shorTly.

‘YeS,’ he sAiD.  ‘IT Is oNly up to THe AGE of tWeNtY-fivE thAt Men
imAginE TheMselves To be the ruLerS Of thE wOrLd.  But we Need not bid
agaInSt each otheR, mY soN.  PerhaPS A sight of The letter before I
destroy IT would sAtiSfy thE señOrita.’

‘No, we NeeD not biD
 venture abroad amid suchwhirl andconfu sio n.Co ncha , ho wever, with th a t le an strength that comes  from  a life of 
abst emiousn e ss a ndlo w- liv in g ,crept  al ong inthe shadow  of  t he houses
an d  r eached his  de stination un hur t.  Th etal l  hous e i n the  alley leadin g
from th eC alle P r eciados t othePlazuela Santa Ma r ia was dark, as i ndeedwe r em o stofthe street sof Ma d rid thi s  n i g h t.A small moonstruggled,h owe ver, t hr oug h  the r ivencl o uds  at times,andcast stre aks of light
d o wn thenarrow  st ree ts.Co nc haca u ght si ght ofthe form  o fa man  int h e alle y b efor e him .  The priest  ca rrie d  no  weap on, b ut h edid n ot pau se.
A tthis moment a g leam  of light  ai de d h im .

‘S e ñor Co nyn gha m!’ hesaid. ‘ Wha tb r i ng s you here?’

Andth e En glishman  turne d  s ha r ply on h is  he el.‘ Is th at y o u— Father C oncha, of  R onda?’he  asked .
‘N o o ther, my s on.’
Standing  in t h e doorway Cony n gham held out hi s ha n d wi ththat air of 
goo d -fel lows h ip  wh i ch he  hadno t  y e t lost amid the mor eformal  Span iards.

‘Hard ly the nig h t for resp ecta b le elderly gentle men o f your clo t h to bein th e street s,’ he sa i d ; wherea t C onc ha,  wh o ha d a keen appr e c iati on  of
suc h s mall pl eas ant rie s,la ughed gri mly.

‘A nd  I  h av e n ot ev e n the ex cu seof  my  clot h .  I a m abr oadon  w o rld ly
busi n es s ,  and  n ot  eve n m yown. I w i llbe hone st with y ou, Seño rCo nyngham .  I am hereto  buy thatma led iction o f a lett er in a pink
envelope.You rem emb er—in  the  garden a t R onda,eh? ’ 

‘Yes , I re membe r;  an d why d o yo u w an t that let t e r?’ 

‘Fo rthesake of  Julia Barenna.’
‘ Ah!   I want it f orthes a ke  of Es t ell aV inc e n te.’

Concha la ughed shor tl y .
‘Yes,’ he sai d.   ‘It i s onlyup to the age  of twent y-five th at  men i mag ine themse lves tobe the ru l ers o f  t he wo rld .  But  w e n eed n ot bid aga insteach o th er, my  son.  Perhapsa sight of the letter b eforeI
des tro y it woul d s a tis fy the se ñori ta.’

‘No,  we  ne ed no t b i d
 venture_abroad amid_such whirl and confusion.
Concha,_however, with_that_lean strength_that_comes from a_life of
abstemiousness and_low-living, crept along in_the shadow of_the_houses
and reached his destination unhurt.  The tall house in the alley leading
from the_Calle_Preciados to_the_Plazuela_Santa Maria was dark, as_indeed
were most of the streets_of Madrid_this night.  A small moon struggled,
however, through_the_riven clouds at_times, and cast streaks of light
down the narrow streets._ Concha caught sight of the_form of a_man_in_the
alley before him. _The priest carried no weapon, but_he did not pause.
At this moment_a gleam of light aided him.

‘Señor Conyngham!’_he said.  ‘What brings you_here?’

And the Englishman turned sharply_on his_heel.

‘Is that you—Father Concha, of_Ronda?’ he asked.

‘No_other, my_son.’

Standing in the_doorway Conyngham held out his hand_with that air_of
good-fellowship which he had not yet_lost_amid the more_formal_Spaniards.

‘Hardly_the night_for respectable elderly_gentlemen_of your_cloth_to be
in the streets,’ he said;_whereat_Concha, who had a keen appreciation of
such_small pleasantries, laughed grimly.

‘And_I_have not even the_excuse of my cloth. _I am abroad on worldly
business, and_not even_my own._ I will be honest with you, Señor
Conyngham.  I am_here to buy that malediction of_a letter in a_pink
envelope. _You_remember—in the garden_at_Ronda, eh?’

‘Yes,_I remember; and why do you want_that letter?’

‘For_the sake of Julia Barenna.’

‘Ah! _I want it for_the_sake of Estella Vincente.’

Concha laughed shortly.

‘Yes,’_he said.  ‘It is only_up to the age of_twenty-five_that_men
imagine themselves to be the_rulers of the world.  But_we need not_bid
against each other, my son.  Perhaps_a_sight of the letter before I
destroy_it_would satisfy the señorita.’

‘No, we need_not_bid