One, the Spanish blood within him turning to that cold icy fury which would stick at nothing in this world to achieve his ends, the while his trained intelligence and high mental powers sat, as it were, upon his frozen anger and rode it as a horse; the other, a volcano of hidden snarling fury, seeing red at each step of his way through the dark, but subordinate and disciplined by the master mind.
They came to the entrance to Duck Lane, walked their horses quietly down it—once more it was in silence—until under the lamp above the big red door of the House of Shame, they saw two horses tethered to a ring in the wall, and a man in a cloak walking up and down in front of the house.
He looked up sharply as they came into the circle of lamp-light, and Johnnie saw, with a fierce throb of exultation, that it was Torromé, the King's valet.
"It is you, Señor," the man said in a low voice of relief.
Johnnie nodded curtly as he dismounted.
"Yes," he said, in a voice equally low, putting something furtive and sly into the tones, for he was a consummate actor. "Yes, it is I, Torromé. I must see His Grace at once on matters of high importance."
"His Grace said nothing," the man began.
"I know, I know," Johnnie answered. "It was not thought that I should have to come, but as events turn out"—he struck with his hand upon the door as he spoke—"I am to see His Highness at once."
"I trust Her Grace——" the man whispered in a frightened voice.
"Not a word," Commendone replied. "Take our horses and keep watch over them also. My man cometh in with me. Word will be sent out to you anon what to do."