‘You are in a hurry.’
‘Yes, I am in a hurry.’
Without further comment he extracted from inside his smart tunic a letter—the famous letter in a pink envelope—which he handed to Concha.
‘Yes,’ said the priest, turning it over. ‘You and I first saw this in the Hotel de la Marina at Algeciras, when we were fools not to throw it into the nearest brazier. We should have saved a good man’s life, my friend.’
He handed the letter back, and thoughtfully dusted his cassock where it was worn and shiny with constant dusting, so that the snuff had nought to cling to.
‘And you have got it—at last. Holy saints—these Englishmen! Do you always get what you want, my son?’
‘Not always,’ replied Conyngham, with an uneasy laugh. ‘But I should be a fool not to try.’
‘Assuredly,’ said Concha, ‘assuredly. And you have come to Ronda—to try?’
‘Yes.’
They walked on in silence, on the shady side of the street, and presently passed and saluted a priest—one of Concha’s colleagues in this city of the South.