or all that she wore was of the best that Saragossa
could provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never known
other, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always had
it.

"I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, with the
ever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery."

"No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed."

She paused with her hand on the door, looking back, her face all shaded
by her tumbled hair hanging to her waist.

"Are you sure you have not heard from papa?"

"Quite sure--! I wish I had," he added when the door was closed behind
her.

CHAPTER IV

THE JADE--CHANCE
The same evening, by the light of his solitary lamp, in the small
room--which had been a lady's boudoir in olden days--the Count de Sarrion
sat down to write a letter to his son. He despatched it at once by a
rider to Torre Garda, far beyond Pampeluna, on the southern slope of the
Pyrenees.

"I am growing too old for this work," he said to himself as he sealed the
letter. "It wants a younger man. Marcos will do it, though he hates the
pavement. There is something of the chase in it, and Marcos is a hunter."

At his call a man came into the room, all dusty and sunburnt, a typical
man of Aragon, dry and wrinkled, burnt like a son of Sahara. His
clothing, like his face, was dust-coloured. He wore knee-breeches of
homespun, brown stockings, a handkerchief that had once been coloured
bound round his head, with the knot over his left ear. He was startlingly
rough and wild in appearance, but his features, on examination, were
refined, and his eyes intelligent.

"I want you to go straight to Torre Garda with this letter, and give it
into the hand of my son with your own hand. It is important. You may be
watched and followed; you understand?"

The man nodded. They are a taciturn people in Aragon and Navarre--so
taciturn that in politely greeting the passer on the road they cut down
the curt good-day. "Buenas," they say, and that is all.

"Go with God," said the Count, and the messenger left the room
noiselessly, for they wear no shoe-leather in this dry land.

There was a train in those days to Pampeluna and a daily post, but then,
as now, a letter of any importance is better sent by hand, while the
railway is still looked upon with suspicion by the authorities as a means
of circulating malcontents and spreading crime. Every train is still
inspected at eac