he?"

"No, Belgian," Candelas answered.

Alicia hardly remembered, very clearly, where the Low Countries might
be. This answer did not satisfy her. But no matter; after all, it was
enough for her to know the victorious jockey had come from one of those
northern countries where all the men are blond and well-dressed.

Candelas began to explain the blind faith that the count, her friend,
had in this remarkable Belgian connoisseur of horses. Then she briefly
outlined the brilliant program of travels and pleasures the count and
she were planning. Along toward the beginning of May they would go to
London, and in June to Paris, where the count was hoping to win the
_grand prix_ at Longchamps. They expected to pass the autumn at Nice.

Alicia answered:

"In September, the little marquis and I will be going to Monte Carlo.
You and I simply _must_ see each other, there. There's not much fun just
with the men, you know. They don't really know how to amuse us."

When the landau reached the Plaza de Castelar, Alicia asked her friend:

"Have you anything on for to-night?"

"No."

"Well then, come to the Teatro Real with me. They're going to give the
divine Bizet's _Carmen_, and Nasi and Pacteschi are going to sing.
Enough said!"

Candelas accepted.

"And now," said Alicia, "I want to go home, to see if any important
message has come. Then I'll take you home, dear. You can change your
dress and we'll go get Manuel, so he'll invite us out to supper."

The carriage stopped before Alicia's door. Teodora, who had been on the
balcony, hurried down. She had a letter in her hand.

"This came for you," said she.

"Who from?"

"From Senor Enrique."

"Enrique!" repeated Alicia, surprised. And she tore the envelope with
feverish haste. She read:

"_Come to my room, I beg you. I must see you to-day, without
fail._"

The only signature was "_E. D._"

Alicia seemed to ponder. She peered at her friend.

"Do you understand this?" asked she. "It's from Enrique Darles. Remember
him? A young chap--Manuel's friend."

Then she asked Teodora:

"Who brought this?"

"An old woman."

"What kind of a looking woman?"

"I don't know. Well--she looked like a janitress."

Alicia lacked decision how to act. The curt authority of those few words
had created a good deal of an impression on her. This was the letter of
a man; children cannot speak thus. An impatient hand, perhaps a
desperate one, had written with vigorous