And, after all, a man may as well show a smile to the world as a worried look, or a mean look, or one of the countless casts of countenance that are moulded by conceit and vanity.  A smile is frequently misconstrued by the simple-hearted into the outward sign of inward kindness.  Many think that it conciliates children and little dogs.  But that which the many think is usually wrong.

If Evasio Mon’s face said anything at all, it warned the world that it had to deal with a man of perfect self-control.  And the man who controls himself is usually able to control just so much of his surrounding world as may suit his purpose.

There was something in the set of this man’s eyes which suggested no easy victory over self.  For his eyes were close together.  His hair was almost red.  His face was rather narrow and long.  It was not the face of an easy-going man as God had made it.  But years had made it the face of a man that nothing could rouse.  He was of medium height, with rather narrow shoulders, but upright and lithe.  He was clean shaven and of a pleasant ruddiness.  His eyes were a bluish gray, and looked out upon the world with a reflective attention through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, with which he had a habit of amusing himself while talking, examining their mechanism and the knot of the fine black cord with a bat-like air of blindness.

In body and mind he seemed to be almost a young man.  But Ramon de Sarrion said that he had known him all his life.  And the Count de Sarrion had spoken with Christina when that woman was Queen of Spain.

Mon was still astir, although the bells of the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Pillar, immediately behind his house, had struck the half hour.  It was more than thirty minutes since the ferry-boat had sidled across the river, and Mon glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece.  He expected, it would seem, a sequel to the arrival which had been so carefully noted.

And at last the sequel came.  A soft knock, as of fat fingers, made Mon glance towards the door, and bid the knocker enter.  The door opened, and in its darkened entry stood the large form of the friar who had rendered such useful aid to a stricken traveler.  The light of Mon’s lamp showed this holy man to be large and heavy of face, with the narrow forehead of the fanatic.  With such a face and head, this could not be a clever man.  But he is a wise worker who has tools of different temper in his bag.  Too fine a steel may snap.  Too delicately fashioned an instrument may turn in the hand when suddenly pressed against the grain.

Mon held out his hand, knowing that there would be no verbal message.  From the mysterious folds of the friar’s sleeves a letter instantly emerged.

“They have blundered.  The man is still living.  You had better come,” it said; and that was all.

“And what do you know of this affair, my brother?” asked Mon, holding the letter to the candle, and, when it was ignited, throwing it on to the cold ashes in the open fireplace, where it burnt.