"It is your own name used intentionally," was the somewhat startling reply.
"There is no other Ferdinand Carbonnell in all Spain than yourself. You are, as I say, the real Ferdinand Carbonnell."
She looked at my puzzled face with a half whimsical, half doubting expression, and then burst into one of her sweet, musical, witching laughs. "You shall know everything," she said.
Sarita did not speak for some time but sat with a very thoughtful look on her face which she turned now and again toward me, as though some point in her reverie had been reached which concerned me and made her doubtful.
"Yes, I am sorry, deeply sorry, and would undo it if I could!" she exclaimed at last, giving an impulsive utterance to her thoughts, and then jumping up and pacing the floor.
"Sorry for what?" I asked. "If it concerns me, as it seems to, pray do not trouble. I am not of much account."
"I am sorry that we used your name. Had I known what manner of man you were, nay, could I even have guessed you would ever come to Madrid, I would never have sanctioned it."
"Suppose you tell me what the thing means. I am not very quick, and I confess to being very much puzzled."
"It means that part of what you heard last night is quite true. Ferdinand Carbonnell is a Carlist leader--a secret leader, you understand--but held for one of the most dangerous, desperate, and capable of them all. And yet there is no Ferdinand Carbonnell in all Spain but yourself."
"I don't see that that need distress you or disturb me very seriously, whatever the puzzle may mean. A name is only a name, after all. But what is this puzzle?"
"Now that I see you I know that we have wronged you," she cried, vigorously.
"The weight of even that responsibility need not prevent your speaking plainly. Let me hear about it. It's very likely I shall enjoy it as much as you have, probably, up till now--I am not exactly like other men in all respects. I'm no stickler for conventionalities."
"Ferdinand Carbonnell, the Carlist leader, is really an embodiment of Ramon's and my Carlism. Let me tell you the truth. So long as I have known that your father, Lord Glisfoyle, was my uncle--and Aunt Mercedes told me some two years ago--I have bitterly resented his conduct in ignoring us, leaving us to bear the injustice of these Quesadas, our other relatives, and treating us, his brother's children, as though we were outcasts, pariahs, unworthy of his aristocratic recognition."