‘You may go home to England to-morrow if you care to,’ he added, after a pause, ‘and if that affair is ever raked up against you I will be your counsel, if you will have me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You do not want to go home to England?’ suggested Sir John, whose ear was as quick as his eye.
‘No, I have affairs in Spain.’
‘Or—perhaps a castle here. Beware of such—I once had one.’
And the cold grey face softened for an instant. It seemed at times as if there were after all a man behind that marble casing.
‘A man who can secure such a friendship as yours has proved itself to be,’ said Sir John after a short silence, ‘can scarcely be wholly bad. He may, as you say, have made a mistake. I promise nothing; but perhaps I will make no further attempts to find him.’
Conyngham was silent. To speak would have been to admit.
‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Sir John, rising, ‘you are safe in this or any country. But I warn you—you have a dangerous enemy in Spain.’
‘I know,’ answered Conyngham, with a laugh, ‘Mr. Esteban Larralde. I once undertook to deliver a letter for him. It was not what he represented it to be, and after I had delivered it he began to suspect me of having read it. He is kind enough to consider me of some importance in the politics of this country owing to the information I am supposed to possess. I know nothing of the contents of the letter, but I want to regain it—if only for a few moments. That is the whole story, and that is how matters stand between Larralde and myself.’