Part 83

“The first. The Royal Wedding was yesterday, and a terrible bomb explosion, in which the King and Queen had a narrow escape, and—but come, Ramón, I want to get you to the hotel.”

“I’m not going to the hotel,” I said. “I’m going to Madrid, to stop Carmona’s marriage.”

THROUGH THE NIGHT

Dick looked at me with indulgent sympathy, as if I were a child.

“It’s after eleven o’clock at night,” he said. “The train for Madrid went two hours ago, and—”

“Did you say Ropes was waiting for you outside?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And my car’s still in the garage where I put it?”

“Yes; but you’re not in a fit state for a journey. If you could see yourself—”

“Oh, I know I’m a nightmare apparition,” I cut in; “but when I’m shaved and—”

“The trip would kill you.”

“It would kill me not to take it.”

We looked at each other for a moment, then Dick said—

“All right. Come on. I know what you feel. But what about that old reprobate upstairs?”

“I’ll wait for you here while you take up some food and leave it in the room. We can’t waste time in Granada on his account. I’ll tell my story, and you can tell yours to the police in Madrid, after I—after I’ve done what I’m going there to do.”

“How long a drive is it?” Dick asked resignedly.

“It’s about two hundred and seventy miles. If we can start by one or two, bar accidents we ought to be in Madrid by noon.”

“The royal bull-fight’s to-morrow,” answered Dick. “Although the wedding’s next day, and the invitations have been out a fortnight, Carmona and Lady Monica are bound to be there, as it’s a royal invitation show; that means a command.”

“Very well,” said I. “Since it may be as difficult to reach her in Madrid as in Seville and Granada, I shall wait outside the entrance to the bull-ring, and as she’s about to go in, she shall see me and hear the whole truth. Don’t look as if you thought it would do no good, Dick; if she’s promised to marry Carmona in spite of all, it’s because he has made her think he can ruin me if she refuses. Pilar’s instinct is right, I know; and now for the first time I understand why Carmona didn’t denounce me to the police as Casa Triana, when Monica refused to keep her engagement with him, as I’m sure she did. No doubt he told her lies—that I could be imprisoned—for years, perhaps. And his wounded hand—what an opportunity for him! Ah! he wouldn’t waste it. He’d make her believe I stabbed him in the cathedral that night. How plausible! And as he’s been very ill, can’t you imagine what her fears for me must have been? Dick, I regard her coming marriage as a proof of love, not of indifference.”

“I’m ready to agree with you,” said Dick. “But you’re risking your life to prove it.”

“Nonsense,” I answered. “The thought that I’m free, that I’m going to her, and that at last I have Carmona in my hand, will give me strength enough to get through.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, but did not answer. He was collecting bread and meat on a plate, to leave for the man upstairs.

Five minutes later we were out of the house and in the street. In front of the miller’s premises Ropes was walking up and down. He did not say much when he saw that Dick had a companion; but as he wrung the hand I held out to him, I heard him breathing hard, and he swore under his breath when he saw my face by the light of a street lamp.

It was the look on his which made me realize, as Dick’s persuasions had not, that I must delay long enough to be made again into some semblance of a sane man. An hour more before getting on the road would not endanger success, though it would try my patience. A quarter of a mile’s walk to the garage was a sharper test of my strength than I would confess; but when Ropes had roused the watchman, filled the good old Gloria with petrol, and started her up the hill, the rush of pure night air gave me life.

At the hotel, we walked in without waking the dozing concièrge. Dick made me free of his things; and when, between us, we had finished my toilet, he admitted that I was not as appalling an object as he had thought. He changed his wet clothes, left a note for the landlord, and it was not yet two o’clock when we started, Ropes driving, Dick with me in the tonneau.

“To Madrid, top speed, quickest way,” was the word; and I hoped for a non-stop run, or as near it as possible.

The quickest way was by Jaen, a road which none of us knew, and the starlit sky was obscured by dark clouds which heralded a summer thunder-storm. As Ropes steered across the Vega towards that gap in the mountains which is the door of the north, there came a waterspout of rain on the roof. Thunder drowned the purr of the motor, and a flash of lightning every other moment dimmed the flying circle of our acetylenes. There had been rain more than once of late, and this deluge made the road, already bad, soft and greasy as an outworn sponge. The Gloria waltzed and slipped in a mass of brown porridge, but Ropes knew that we were to drive against time, and, throwing caution to the wind, tore through the treacherous mud as if to win the cup in a great race.

We flung Granada behind us, dashing in among the foothills of the mountains, mounting a slippery defile, with the rain like whips lashing our faces. Orchards flashed by; there was a rock tunnel, where the lights shone fiercely on rough-hewn stone, and the thrum of the motor became a roar.