"Senor Rubio, my brother wishes you to understand that he has made a mistake in ordering this gentleman's arrest. He is a member of the British Embassy. Permit me, senor," she said to me, holding the door for me to pass.
"Your Excellency's wishes——?" asked Rubio.
The answer was a wave of the hand, and I was free. A minute later, I was driving to my rooms, with a pretty picture of Dolores Quesada's anxious face in my thoughts.
How long I should remain at liberty was another question, however. Owing to the power she had over him, of a kind I could not guess, Dolores had succeeded in defeating his purpose for the moment; but I knew him too well not to think he would instantly set about repairing that defeat by indirect means unknown to her. I was too dangerous to be left at liberty, and he knew it; and probably his agents were even now starting out in quest of me; for Spanish prisons tell no tales.
But I could at least make good use of my liberty, and my first step must be to rush to my rooms and procure a sufficient supply of money for emergencies. I had quite long enough start of the police for this, as a single minute in the rooms would be enough.
Little did I think, however, of the news I should find awaiting me. A telegram lay on the table, and a glance at its contents filled me with surprise, concern, and pain. It was from the family solicitors in London, and ran as follows:
"Deeply regret to announce Lord Glisfoyle thrown from horse this afternoon and picked up dead. Neck broken. Can you return at once, or wire instructions? Writing you fully by this post."
Poor Lascelles! And as I stood staring absently at the message my thoughts went toppling head over heels down the staircase of the years which he and I had climbed in so different a fashion.
We were scarcely a lucky race, we Carbonnells. My father had had a struggle for many years, and had barely held the title long enough to free himself, by the sweating process of rigid economy, from the smarts and humiliations of the debts piled up in time of poverty. Now Lascelles, in the very course of his humdrum, stay-at-home, commonplace life, had been cut over with a side swing of the remorseless scythe; and here was I, the very antithesis of my brother, flying for my liberty, my life perhaps in danger, and at the very moment of becoming head of the Carbonnells, known and likely to be officially labelled as that much more fateful chief, Ferdinand Carbonnell, head of the most dangerous and violent section of the Carlists. At the thought I started, and seemed to catch a gleam of light. I was no longer mere Ferdinand Carbonnell—I was Lord Glisfoyle. Would Quesada dare to pursue me now?
My answer was prompt. I crammed the telegram into my pocket, and rushed to the drawer where my money was and thrust the whole of it into another pocket, got my revolver and a good supply of cartridges, and hurried out of the house. I might be a peer of Great Britain, but for the moment I was a political fugitive in Madrid, and Sarita had yet to be saved.