‘A love letter,’ said Conyngham bluntly.
The Spaniard looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Ah! you do not understand,’ he said, ‘in that cold country of the North. If you stay in Spain, perhaps some dark-eyed one will teach you. But,’ and his manner changed with theatrical rapidity, as he laid his slim hand on the letter, ‘if, when you see her you love her, I will kill you.’
Conyngham laughed and held out his hand for the letter.
‘It is insufficiently addressed,’ he said practically. ‘How shall I find the lady?’
‘Her name is Barenna, the Señorita Barenna; that is sufficient in Ronda.’
Conyngham took up the letter and examined it. ‘It is of importance?’ he said.
‘Of the utmost.’
‘And of value?’
‘Of the greatest value in the world to me.’