"And what does it all mean?" I asked.
"We start for Paris to-morrow," replied Mrs. Curwen; "and while you gentlemen have been smoking and talking, I have been fortunate enough to secure the services of a new companion, whose name to the world is Juanita Sanchez. You will remember that. Mr. Mayhew, who can be trusted to see to any business arrangements, will, I know, kindly arrange for me to-morrow to have a special train through to Paris—I am too frightened by these Madrid mobs to remain longer—and will get passports for Mercy and myself and Juanita; and if Lord Glisfoyle joins us, so much the better. And now as I am desperately hungry let us have supper."
It was a strange feast, and had it not been for Mayhew's ever ready glibness of speech, it would have been an embarrassing business. But he opened a vein of anecdotal chatter, and Mrs. Curwen being very excited, soon began to keep up her end, so that gradually the feeling of strangeness wore away and we came to the discussion of our plans. There is no need to dwell upon them further, for they were all fated to be suddenly checkmated.
We had finished the supper; and in the lull that followed, Mayhew and I, at Mrs. Curwen's request, lighted cigarettes, and Mercy and Sarita having risen from the table, stood talking together at the far end of the room when a waiter came in, and approaching Mrs. Curwen, said in a very apologetic tone—
"I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but someone desires to see you—in point of fact, a police agent." As he spoke, we heard the sound of men moving in the corridor and a whispered word of command; and the next moment the police agent was in the room.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked Mrs. Curwen, indignantly, in English, and the official, not understanding her words but replying to her gestures, bowed and shrugged his shoulders.
"Permit me to interpret," said Mayhew, readily, and he put the question in Spanish; and meanwhile the man's eyes were all over the room, settling finally on me.
"My instructions are to come here—the rooms of Senora Curwen, Hotel de l'Opera—" this he read from his instructions—"in search of the Carlist, Ferdinand Carbonnell."
Mayhew made a show of interpreting this to Mrs. Curwen, and jumbled in a half-coherent caution that he knew the man understood English, so that we must look out.
"Tell him he has made a mistake; and you," she said to the waiter, "go and fetch the manager of the Hotel. I will not stand this kind of treatment."