“So much was at stake for us,” she said.  “It seemed a necessity that we must have that letter, that no sudden orders must reach Olvera to-night.  For there is some one at Olvera—­I must trust you, you see, though you are our pledged enemy—­some one of great consequence to us, some one we love, some one to whom we look to revive this Spain of ours.  No, it is not our King, but his son—­his young and gallant son.  He will be gone to-morrow, but he is at Olvera to-night.  And so when Esteban found out to-day that orders were to be sent to the commandant there it seemed we had no choice.  It seemed those orders must not reach him, and it seemed therefore—­just so that no hurt might be done, which otherwise would surely have been done, whatever I might order or forbid—­that I must use a woman’s way and secure the letter.”

“And the bearer?” asked Shere, advancing to the table.  “What of him?  He, I suppose, might creep back to Ronda, broken in honour and with a lie to tell?  The best lie he could invent.  Or would you have helped him to the lie?”

Christina shrank away from the table as though she had been struck.

“You had not thought of his plight,” continued Shere.  “He rides out from Ronda an honest soldier and returns—­what?  No more a soldier than this glove of yours is your hand,” and taking up one of the gloves he held it for a moment, and then tossed it down at a distance from its fellow.  He deliberately turned his back to the table as Christina replied: 

“The bearer would be just our pledged enemy—­pledged to outwit us, as we to outwit him.  But when you came there was no effort made to outwit you.  Own that at all events?  You carry your orders safely, with your honour safe, though the consequence may be disaster for us, and disgrace for that we did not prevent you.  Own that!  You and I, I suppose, will meet no more.  So you might own this that I have used no tricks with you?”

The appeal coming as an answer to his insult and contempt, and coming from one whose pride he knew to be a real and dominant quality, touched Shere against his expectation.  He faced Christina on an impulse to give her the assurance she claimed, but he changed his mind.

“Are you sure of that?” he asked slowly, for he saw that the gloves while his back was turned had again been crossed.  He at all events was now sure.  He was sure that those crossed gloves were a signal for Esteban, a signal that the letter had not changed hands.  “You have used no tricks with me?” he repeated.  “Are you sure of that?”

The handle of the door rattled; Christina quickly crossed towards it.  Shere followed her, but stopped for the fraction of a second at the table and deliberately and unmistakably placed the gloves in parallel lines.  As the door opened, he was standing between Christina and the table, blocking it from her view.

It was not she, however, who looked to the table, but Esteban.  She kept her eyes upon her brother, and when he in his turn looked to her Shere noticed a glance of comprehension swiftly interchanged.  So Shere was confident that he had spoiled this trick of the gloves, and when he took a polite leave of Christina and followed Esteban from the room it was not without an air of triumph.