‘There walks a tragedy,’ said Concha, in his curt way. ‘Inside every cassock there walks a tragedy—or a villain.’
After a pause it was Concha who again broke the silence. Conyngham seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts.
‘And Larralde—?’ said the priest.
‘I come from him—from Barcelona,’ answered Conyngham, ‘where he is in safety. Catalonia is full of such as he. Sir John Pleydell, before leaving Spain, bought this letter for two hundred pounds—a few months ago—when I was a poor man and could not offer a price for it. But Larralde disappeared when the plot failed, and I have only found him lately in Barcelona.’
‘In Barcelona?’ echoed Concha.
‘Yes; where he can take a passage to Cuba, and where he awaits Julia Barenna.’
‘Ah!’ said Concha, ‘so he also is faithful—because life is not long, my son. That is the only reason. How wise was the great God when He made a human life short! ‘
‘I have a letter,’ continued Conyngham, ‘from Larralde to the Señorita Barenna.’
‘So you parted friends in Barcelona—after all—when his knife has been between your shoulders?’
‘Yes.’