"Oh no, certainly not."
"Perhaps you know some of them?"
"No, I don't think I do." The answer was lightly spoken, but I noticed that a shadow of anxiety began to show on his face.
"By sight, perhaps?"
"No. No, not even by sight." The tone was growing less firm.
"What did you say you were?"
"Really, I am not here for examination," and I saw his hand go stealing towards his pocket.
"Keep your hand out of your pocket, please. I must know more about you. You are armed, I observe, and I must know why. My friend and I are of the secret police; and our mission is in search of Carlist spies. You are one; and we are going to search you." And almost before I grasped the meaning of the thing, Garcia had whipped out a revolver, and the stranger, now showing unmistakable signs of fear, was looking along the barrel into the strong, threatening face. At that Cabrera crossed the carriage and sat beside him. "The right pocket," said Garcia, coolly; and his companion plunged his hand in and drew out a revolver.
"Put your hands up," cried Garcia, his voice ringing with menace.
"I'm no Carlist spy," cried the fellow, and then appealed to me. "You won't see this done, senor, without trying to help me?"