“Yes,” said Mr. Mapleton; “Martin is a real treasure for a busy man like myself. He was in the service of the Marquis de Borja, secretary to Queen Marie Christine, and only left after his master’s death.”
“Then you are very lucky to get him,” remarked Mrs. Beverley. “I know what it is to have a butler upon whom one can rely. A widow like myself is very handicapped in that respect. I am no judge of wine. I leave it all to my man, and I trust him implicitly.”
“Just as we trust Martin,” said the banker’s good-looking wife, and then the entrance of the sedate and respectful servant put an end to further discussion.
Luncheon over, Mrs. Mapleton proposed a run in the car over to El Escorial, the favourite summer resort of the Madrileños, where they visited the wonderful Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial, the huge pile of whitish granite, destitute of ornament, and broken by small windows; one of the most remarkable edifices of all time which seems to rise out of the stony sides of the great Guadarrama Mountains, and resembles, except in its majestic façade, a fortress or a prison.
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Sylvia, as they were conducted into the magnificent church built on the model of the original plan of St. Peter’s in Rome, with its forty-eight altars, each containing a valuable painting, its magnificent frescoes, and the immense high altar of valuable marbles and exquisitely gilded bronzes, before which many candles were burning. They were shown the Sacristia, the Panteén de los Reyes, or burial vault of the Spanish monarchs, the Library, and afterwards the Royal Palace.
Later they motored back along a road below which, in the gorgeous Spanish sunset, lay the plain of New Castile and Madrid on the one hand, and the Guadarrama Mountains on the other.
Next evening Geoffrey again returned to El Pardo, and as he stood with Sylvia and Mrs. Mapleton upon the terrace of the villa, the banker’s wife pointed across to a towering rock upon the edge of the mountains.
“Over there is the Crow’s Cliff,” she said. “From it, through many centuries, those guilty of murder were hurled. Indeed, even during the past few years battered bodies of men and women have been found beneath it, victims of those who have taken justice into their own hands.”
“How horrible!” exclaimed the smart young South American girl. “When was the last body found?”
“About a year ago—a labourer in a vineyard close by, on going to work one morning, found the body of a well-dressed young woman. She was believed to be English by her clothes, but she was never identified. The police have abandoned their inquiries, as it is a complete mystery.”