I haven't
been allowed to go to Angele's; and though Angele comes to see me, mother
always makes some excuse for being with us."

After this letter of Monica's I had at least some idea of how matters
stood; and in the circumstances there seemed nothing to do but to be near
her, and to wait.

It was not until the latter part of March that the Duke of Carmona came
back to his mother's villa at Biarritz.

His arrival was not announced in the local paper, nevertheless I heard of
it; and the day after, Mademoiselle de la Mole sent me another letter from
Monica, only a few lines, evidently written in great haste.

They were to pay the visit to the Duchess of Carmona in Seville, and were
to arrive there in time for the famous ceremonies of Holy Week; that was
all she knew. The time of starting was either not decided, or else it was
not considered best that she should know too long beforehand.

"I'm miserable about going," wrote the girl; "but what can I do? I used to
think it would be glorious to see Spain, but now I'm frightened. I have a
horrible feeling that I shall never come back. I know it's too much to
ask, and I don't see how you can do it if I do ask, since I can tell you
nothing of our plans; but if only, _only_, you could keep near me, within
call, I should be safe. I suppose it's useless to hope for that? Anyway,
whatever happens, I shall always love you."

To this I wrote an answer, but Angele feared she might fail in getting it
to her friend. The lease of Lady Vale-Avon's Biarritz villa had just
expired, and the mother and daughter were moving to the Duchess of
Carmona's for a few days. For some reason, the Duchess had not once
invited Angele to come to her house since the ball. She might not be able
to see Monica; and it would be very unsafe to trust to the post.

It was on the evening of the day on which I had this news that my
chauffeur knocked at the door of our sitting-room at the hotel.

"I thought," said he, "I'd better tell your lordship something which has
just happened. It may be of importance; it may be of none."

Now I may as well explain that Peter Ropes is no common chauffeur. He is
the son of the old coachman who served my father for many years in
England; was groom to my first pony; went abroad with me as handy man; was
with me through most of my adventures; when I took up motoring,
volunteered to go into a factory and thoroughly learn the gentle art of
chauffeuring; and at this time und