No; he would not telegraph to the next station--not yet--he would
inquire.
He walked quickly away, reaching the hotel breathlessly, yet in a
space that seemed all too brief for his disconnected thought.
There were signs of animation in the hall, and an empty carriage
was just reentering the courtyard. The hall-porter met him with
demonstrative concern and apology. Ah! if he had only understood
his Excellency better, he could have saved him all this trouble.
Evidently his Excellency was going with the Arguello party, who had
ordered a carriage, doubtless, for the same important journey, an
hour before, yet had left only a few moments after his Excellency,
and his Excellency, it would appear, had gone to the wrong station.
Paul pushed hurriedly past the man and ascended to his room. Both
windows were open, and in the faint moonlight he could see that
something white was pinned to his pillow. With nervous fingers he
relit his candles, and found it was a note in Yerba's handwriting.
As he opened it, a tiny spray of the vine that had grown on the
crumbling wall fell at his feet. He picked it up, pressed it to
his lips, and read, with dim eyes, as follows:--
"You know now why I spoke to you as I did to-day, and why the other
half of this precious spray is the only memory I care to carry with
me out of this crumbling ruin of all my hopes.
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