He did not look at her as he spoke, but bent to put out his cigar and then, as he straightened himself, she realised how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, how strong and for the first time since she had set eyes on him she realised too that he was a young man. Somehow she had thought of him as middle-aged or rather ageless, a power rather than a person, inhuman rather than human.

Skye’s lips were suddenly dry.

“I – don’t – understand,” she stammered. “Perhaps I am being stupid. Perhaps it’s because we speak – a different language.”

“Then let’s speak the same language,” he answered in English.

She gave a cry of sheer amazement.

“You speak English!”

“Most certainly, even as you speak Spanish.”

“But – it sounds so rude to say that it is something I never expected – but you know what I mean.”

“Can no one have any talents but the British or, of course, the inestimable Americans?” he remarked.

“But you speak so well.”

“I am flattered that you should think so.”

“Then, as we are talking in my own language, perhaps it will be easier for you to make me understand. You brought me here by force. Although I did not try to escape from your men, it was obvious that I should not have the slightest hope of being able to do so. You know that I have money, that I have – a yacht, so its obvious, isn’t it, that the reason you are holding me here is for ransom?”

“That is your idea, not mine.”

“Well then, what else? Why go on prevaricating? Let me know once and for all what it is you want, for I have not the slightest idea what it can be.”

“You are very modest,” El Diablo said. “Have all the social wastrels in London and New York lost their eyesight?”

“I-I don’t – understand.”

“I think you do!”

Skye felt her heart give a frightened leap.

“If you mean what – I think you mean – ” and despite every resolution her voice trembled, “ – then you must be mad.”

“No, I am not mad, merely appreciative of beauty when I see it.”

“I think this conversation is becoming ridiculous,” Skye said with an effort. “If you are trying to frighten me, you are not succeeding. I am a British subject. Have you forgotten?”

There was a faint smile on the lips of El Diablo as he moved across the room towards her.

“A British subject in the middle of Mariposa,” he said slowly, “and the nearest Ambassador is perhaps three hundred miles away. What shall we do about it?”

His irony was somehow more difficult to combat than anything she had yet encountered, but with a supreme effort she threw back her head to look up at him.