accompanied by another lady. May I inquire her name?"
"Certainly. She is Mrs. Isabel Harding."
"I thought so," mutters Jack. Then:
"What is her business here?"
"Mrs. Harding is my guest," replies Don Quesada, rather curtly.
"She has been here long?"
"About ten days."
Jack stares and bites his cigar viciously. "You will pardon my questioning, Don Queseda. Believe me, I am not actuated by idle curiosity."
The Don bows and Jack leans over and asks, earnestly:
"During Mrs. Harding's stay here has she learned anything that would lead her to suspect that you are identified with the movement to free Cuba?"
"Naturally. She is one of us," replies the Don, dryly.
"One of us!" repeats Jack, in astonishment.
"Yes. An American, like yourself; she is an enthusiastic adherent of the Cuban cause and is enabled to do us much service."
"Then you have trusted her with some secrets?"
"She is at this moment the bearer of important dispatches to Captain Francisco Guerra."
"Great Scott!" Jack jumps to his feet. Don Quesada rises with him and demands:
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I believe Mrs. Harding to be a spy in the employ of the Spanish government, and that you have signed and given into her hands your own death warrant and the utter ruin of your friends!"
It is a cruel blow. Don Quesada staggers under it and sinks helplessly into his chair. Jack pours him out a draught of wine and then paces to and fro on the veranda, his active mind intent on some path of escape from the desperate situation.
"At what hour does the ball begin?" he demands.
"At eight, I believe," replies Don Quesada, faintly. He is completely crushed.
"It is now nearly six," muses Jack, glancing at his
