He handed back the note, and they sat in silence for a long time in the huge, dimly-lighted room.  Success in life rests upon one small gift—­the secret of the entry into another man’s mind to discover what is passing there.  The greatest general the world has known owed his success, by his own admission, to his power of guessing correctly what the enemy would do next.  Many can guess, but few guess right.

“She has not dated her letter,” said Sarrion, at length.

“No, but it was written on Thursday.  That is the day that the colchonero goes to the Calle de la Dormitaleria.”

He drew a strand of wool from the envelope and showed it to Sarrion.

“And the day that Mon returned to Pampeluna.  He will be prompt to act.  He always has been.  That is what makes him different from other men.  Prompt and restless.”

Sarrion glanced across the table, as he spoke, at the face of his son, who was also a prompt man, but withal restful, as if possessing a reserve upon which to draw in emergency.  For the restless and the uneasy are those who have all their forces in the field.

“Do not sit up for me,” said Marcos, rising.  He stood and thoughtfully emptied his glass.  “I shall change my clothes,” he said, “and go out.  There will be plenty of Navarrese at the Posada de los Reyes.  The night diligencias will be in before daylight.  If there is any news of importance I will wake you when I come in.”

It was a dark night, and the wind roared down the bed of the Ebro.  For the spring was at hand with its wild march “solano” and hard, blue skies.  There was no moon.  But Marcos had good eyes, and those whom he sought were men who, after a long siesta, traveled or worked during half the night.

The dust was astir on the Paseo del Ebro, where it lies four inches deep on the broad space in front of the Posada de los Reyes where the carts stand.  There were carts here now with dim, old-fashioned lanterns, and long teams of mules waiting patiently to be relieved of their massive collars.

The first man he met told him that Evasio Mon must have arrived in Saragossa at sunset, for he had passed him on the road, going at a good pace on horseback.

From another he heard the rumour that the Carlists had torn up the line between Pampeluna and Castejon.

“Go to the station,” this informant added.  “They will tell you there, because you are a rich man.  To me they will tell nothing.”

At the station he learnt that this rumour was true; and one who was in the telegraph service gave him to understand that the Carlists had driven the outpost back from the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, which was now cut off.

“He thinks I am at Torre Garda,” reflected Marcos, as he returned to the city, fighting the wind on the bridge.

Chance favoured him, for a man with tired horses stopped his carriage to inquire if that were the Count Marcos de Sarrion.  He had brought Juanita to Saragossa in his carriage, not with Sor Teresa, but with the Mother Superior of the school and two other pupils.  He had been dismissed at the Plaza de la Constitucion, and the ladies had taken another carriage.  He had not heard the address given to the driver.