ve any kindness for me, sir, let go that jar; and don't be seen with
me."

I gave Ropes his way. But I lingered near enough to watch the scene which
followed; and had that innocent-looking jar been broken, or had the
contents of the soaked bouquet exploded of its own accord, I should have
been near enough to share my chauffeur's fate.

He explained in broken Spanish, eked out with gesture; and the fact that
he was English, with the most honest of English faces to vouch for his
sincerity, helped him. The man in his grasp was Catalan, which was not in
his favour at Seville. The civil guards looked at the jar with respectful
interest, but did not offer to take it; and, after a moment of lively
conversation, Ropes and his captive marched rapidly away with the men in
red, black, and white.

At least, whatever happened now, the King was safe; and Monica was safe.

It was not until eight o'clock, when I went to the quiet hotel where we
had appointed to meet and dine, that I found out anything more. Then they
told me that the King returned to his box after walking in the procession,
and that, soon after, Dick had been surprised by a visit from a member of
the police in plain clothes. The man had come to the O'Donnels' box,
inquired if the American gentleman were Mr. Waring, asked if he had a
chauffeur named Peter Ropes, and being answered in the affirmative had
told the story of the bomb. Dick had then gone with the policeman to see
Ropes, had made a statement concerning himself, his business, his car, his
chauffeur, his occupation in life, and the friends with whom he was
staying. All had proved satisfactory. Ropes had been thanked by the police
for his promptness and presence of mind, and threatened with active
gratitude from higher quarters. Both had been asked to remain within reach
for a few days; and the episode was over.

But it was not until they heard my part of the story that Dick or the
O'Donnels knew precisely where and how Ropes had come into the drama.

XXXI

BEHIND AN IRON GRATING

"Say," remarked Dick in a stage whisper, "there'd be a big drop in the bee
industry if all the world turned Protestant and bought no more great wax
candles."

We were standing inside the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, in the
Court of Oranges. Beyond, where the stuffed crocodile swung in a light
breeze, was the entrance to the cathedral, black as the mouth of a cave.
T