"Well, senor?"
"She will not go."
"Then you persuaded her—you interfered," cries Manada hotly.
"I did nothing of the sort. Still, I repeat, she will not go. But, stay, perhaps she will," murmurs Van Zandt, thoughtfully. "Perhaps her ladyship's plans lie deeper than I have supposed," he thinks. "But even if she does go, I tell you, my friend, it were far better that you burned your vessel where it now lies than that Isabel Harding sets foot upon its deck."
"Your meaning?" demands Manada in a hoarse whisper.
"Your face tells me that you have guessed the truth," Van Zandt says more kindly. "The woman has betrayed you. She is a spy—diplomat is the polite word—in the employ of the Spanish government."
"Caramba!" hisses Manada, sinking back into his chair with colorless cheeks. "But you can furnish proof of what you assert?" he cries almost eagerly.
Van Zandt's lip curls. "Had you watched the fair Isabel after you left her you would have seen join her a gentleman whose presence in itself would have been proof sufficient—Gen. Murillo. You know him?"
"Of the Spanish service," murmurs Manada in crushed tones.
"Precisely. I met him at the club the other day. And if I mistake not he has done an excellent bit of work for his government to-night."
"But I will find the woman," bursts out Manada, leaping to his feet. "Por Dios! I will search her out and"
"You will do nothing of the kind," interrupts Van Zandt, drawing the excited man back into his chair. "Mrs. Harding left for her hotel half an hour ago. Even were she here it would avail you nothing to confront her with her—diplomacy. Gen. Murillo is already in possession of your plans. No, my friend; the mischief is done, but happily it is not irremediable."
"Ah!" cries Manada, with a flash of hope.
