She was comforted long before I left her. But as I stepped out into the street again a man accosted me. Evidently he had been on the watch, awaiting me. He fell into step beside me almost before I realized his presence. It was Escovedo.
“So,” he said, very sinister, “you'll not be warned.”
“Nor will you,” I answered, no whit less sinister myself.
It was broad daylight. A pale March sunshine was beating down upon the cobbled streets, and passers-by were plentiful. There was no fingering of hilts or talk of skewering on either side. Nor must I show any of the anger that was boiling in me. My face was too well known in Madrid streets, and a Secretary of State does not parade emotions to the rabble. So I walked stiff and dignified amain, that dog in step with me the while.
“She will have told you what I have said to her,” he murmured.
“And what she said to you. It was less than your deserts.”
“Groom and lackey, eh?” said he. “And less than I deserve—a man of my estate. Oh, ho! Groom and lackey! Those are epithets to be washed out in blood and tears.”
“You rant,” I said.
“Or else to be paid for—handsomely.” His tone was sly—so sly that I answered nothing, for to answer a sly man is to assist him, and my business was to let him betray the cause of this slyness. Followed a spell of silence. Then, “Do you know,” said he, “that several of her relatives are thinking seriously of killing you?”
“Many men have thought seriously of that—so seriously that they never attempted it. Antonio Perez is not easily murdered, Don Juan, as you may discover.”