Part 9 (2/2)

”Your house, I think, Mrs. Warriner,” and he took off his hat and wiped his forehead.

”I should prefer,” said she, ”to hear what you have to say in the Alameda.”

”As you will. I am bound to say that I could have done with a soda and I'm so frisky, but I recognise that I have no right to trespa.s.s upon your hospitality.”

They went on, crossed a small plaza, and so came down to the Tajo. A bridge spans the ravine in a single arch; in the centre of the bridge Miranda stopped, leaned over the parapet and looked downwards.

Wilbraham followed her example. For three hundred feet the walls of the gorge fell sheer, at the bottom the turbulence of a torrent foamed and roared, at the top was the span of the bridge. In the brickwork of the arch a tiny window looked out on air.

”Do you see that window?” said Miranda, drily. ”The prison is underfoot in the arch of the bridge.”

”Indeed, how picturesque,” returned Wilbraham, easily, who was quite untouched by any menace which Miranda's words might suggest. Miranda looked across the road towards a guardia. Wilbraham lazily followed the direction of her glance; for all the emotion which he showed blackmail might have been held in Spain an honourable means of livelihood. Miranda turned back. ”That window,” she said, ”is the window of the prison.”

”The view,” remarked Wilbraham, ”would compensate in some measure for the restriction.”

”Chains might add to the restriction.”

”Chains _are_ unpleasant,” Wilbraham heartily agreed.

Miranda realised that she had tempted defeat in this little encounter.

She accepted it and walked on.

”You were wise to come off that barrow, Mrs. Warriner,” Wilbraham remarked in approval.

They crossed the bridge and entered the Mercadillo, the new Spanish quarter of the town, ascended the hill, and came to the bull ring.

Before that Wilbraham stopped. ”Why do we go to the Alameda?”

”We can talk there on neutral ground.”

”It seems a long way.”

”On the other hand,” replied Miranda, ”the Alameda is close to the railway station. By the bye, how did you know where I lived?”

”There was no difficulty in discovering that. I learnt at Gibraltar that you lived at Ronda, and the station-master here told me where.

When I saw your house I did not wonder at your choice. You were wise to take a Moorish house, I fancy--the patio with the tamarisks in the middle and the fountain and the red and green tiles--very pleasant, I should think. A door or two stood open. The rooms seemed charming, low in roof, with dark panels, of a grateful coolness, and so far as I could judge, with fine views.”

”You went into the house, then?” exclaimed Miranda.

”Yes, I asked for you, and was told that Miss Holt was at home. I thought it wise to go in--one never knows. So I introduced myself, but not my business, to Miss Holt--your cousin, is she not? A profound sentimentalist, I should fancy; I noticed she was reading _Henrietta Temple_. She complained of being much alone; she nurses grievances, no doubt. Sentimentalists have that habit--what do you say?” Miranda could have laughed at the shrewdness of the man's perceptions, had she not been aware that the shrewdness was a weapon directed against her own breast.

They reached the Alameda. Miranda led the way to a bench which faced the railings. Wilbraham looked quickly and suspiciously at her, and then walked to the railings and looked over. The Alameda is laid out upon the very edge of the Ronda plateau, and Wilbraham looked straight down a sheer rock precipice of a thousand feet. He remained in that posture for some seconds. From the foot of that precipice the plain of the Vega stretched out level as a South-sea lagoon. The gardens of a few cottages were marked out upon the green like the squares of a chess-board; upon the hedges there was here and there the flutter of white linen. Orchards of apples, cherries, peaches, and pears, enriched the plain with their subdued colours, and the Guadiaro, freed from the confinement of its chasm, wound through it with the glitter and the curve of a steel spring. A few white Moorish mills upon the banks of the stream were at work, and the sound of them came droning through the still heat up to Wilbraham's ears.

Wilbraham, however, was not occupied with the scenery, for when he turned back to Miranda his face was dark and angry.

”Why did you bring me to the Alameda?” he asked sternly.

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