“She is at this moment the bearer of important dispatches to Captain Francisco Guerra.”
“Great Scott!” Jack jumps to his feet. Don Quesada rises with him and demands:
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I believe Mrs. Harding to be a spy in the employ of the Spanish government, and that you have signed and given into her hands your own death warrant and the utter ruin of your friends!”
It is a cruel blow. Don Quesada staggers under it and sinks helplessly into his chair. Jack pours him out a draught of wine and then paces to and fro on the veranda, his active mind intent on some path of escape from the desperate situation.
“At what hour does the ball begin?” he demands.
“At eight, I believe,” replies Don Quesada, faintly. He is completely crushed.
“It is now nearly six,” muses Jack, glancing at his watch. “And Guerra? Where was he to receive the dispatches?”
“At the ball.”
“Quick! Pen and paper,” requests Jack. And as Don Quesada hurries away to comply the young man murmurs: “There is only one chance in a thousand, but I must take it.”