For an instant I could see him hesitate, and then as though he had reached a sudden decision, he motioned me to a chair and seated himself, facing me in the red glow of the lantern overhead. “The _señor_ is very young,” he began softly; again he hesitated, glancing swiftly over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that there was no one else in the room. “Very young, _señor_, but also—shall we say —very rich?” His eyes were fastened upon mine; the red beam from the lantern lighted his hollow cheeks with a weird, unearthly light. I took off my hat and laid it on the table at my side. “That need not concern us,” I said. “_Muy bien, señor_. We understand each other _segurimente_. Of the character I am judge—for I am an old _señor_, and many people have I known.” He pulled a watch from his pocket. “The hour is late. No one comes to buy.” He rose to his feet and locked the door that led to the street. “That is better, _señor_.” He came back toward me with his tottering, dragging step, and switched off the amber light in the ceiling. “The _señor_ will remove his storm-coat?” I laid my overcoat on the table and sat again in the little wicker chair. The shadows of the room were close around us now. In the heavy red of the light I could see only a corner of the table and the shaking figure of the little old man as he sat facing me. Behind him the solid blackness had crept up like a wall. “_Bien, señor_. That is well. Now we talk.” I felt my pulse quicken a little; but I held my gaze firm to his. “Only to you, _señor_, would I say what now you shall hear.” His glance shifted upward into the darkness, then back again to mine. “Francisco Goya, Velasquez, Sorolla y Bastida—all these great men of _España_ are known to the _señor_. Is it not so?” I nodded. “But one there is—we shall call him Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál—of him the _señor_ has never heard?” “No,” I said; “I have never heard of him.” He leaned forward in his chair again; his locked fingers in his lap writhed upon each other like little twisting snakes. “A wonderful painter, _señor_, for he knew the secret to put life upon his canvas.” His voice fell to a sibilant whisper. “Vasquez y Carbajál,” I replied. “No, I never heard of him.” “Only one picture, _señor_, to make him famous. Very old he is, this Vasquez. One picture to make him famous. Five years it has taken him. Five years of working—working—” His voice trailed off into silence. “Yes?” I prompted. His head had sunk to his breast; he raised it with a start at my word. The fire came back to his eyes; he sat up rigid in his chair. “A picture of the kind none other could paint, _señor_. The secret to put life upon canvas. Is that not droll?” His querulous, half maniacal laughter echoed across the shadowed room. “From the mortal living, _señor_, we take the life, and upon the canvas we make it immortal.” I pushed my chair backward violently, half starting to my feet.