‘Ah!’
‘No,’ pursued Concepçion. ‘And yet it is simple. In Algeciras I have a wife. It is well that a man should travel at times. So,’ he paused and bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, ‘so—we take the road together.’
‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said Conyngham, ‘I am sure I can but feel honoured. You know I have no money.’
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
‘What matter?’ he said. ‘What matter? We can keep an account—a mere piece of paper—so: “Concepçion Vara, of Algeciras, in account current with F. Conyngham; Englishman. One month’s wages at one hundred pesetas.” It is simple.’
‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham. ‘It is only when pay-day comes that things will get complicated.’
Concepçion laughed.
‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said. ‘We shall enjoy ourselves in Madrid. I see that.’
Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and Julia Barenna’s danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him. Ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.
‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham. ‘We are going to Xeres, where I have business. Do you know the road to Xeres?’