So, although her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unusually bright, both were dry when Consuelo jumped up to welcome Anita de Guevara. She greeted her warmly with a kiss on either cheek. Had Consuelo heard, Anita began at once, of the magnificent new establishment that Don Tiburcio had built on the Rio Grande for the Americana he had married? No? They said it was to be furnished with naught but carved woods from Spain, and every bit of the table silver was to be made in Salamanca and imported! “Oof! I do not believe that!” protested Doña Gertrudis. Anita leaned closer to Consuelo. “Is it true what they are telling of Luis?” she whispered. “What are they telling?” demanded Consuelo, hotly, a trifle faintly. “That he has turned Penitente. That he no longer games or diverts himself.” Consuelo was saved from making any reply to this question by the entrance at that moment of Don Anabel, who came in, as always, with a manner of distinction and ceremony, bowing carefully to each of the ladies, maintaining the traditions of that chivalry of the land of Cervantes brought to New Spain by his forefathers. “What have you learned of the painting?” asked Anita of Don Anabel, the business of saluting all the company in the room being concluded. Anita always asked the most unfortunate questions. Don Anabel became obsessed whenever the painting was mentioned. “Nothing that can give me hope for its recovery,” he replied. “Rather to the contrary. You may remember,” he turned to Doña Gertrudis, “that of the suspects among those who had left Santa Fe during the week when Murillo disappeared (he always referred to the picture as the Murillo), suspicion pointed to the Americano who accompanied the last caravan and who remained here after it returned (as though everyone present did not know Steven perfectly without such careful identification). “Today I learned that this young man departed the Villa at night. And furthermore that he was seen to vault the wall of our lower garden earlier on that same night, to remain inside the space of twenty minutes or so.” A clatter of amazement and discussion pro and con broke forth. Presently Consuelo made herself heard, almost timidly. (“What a change has come over _la gattita_,” thought Anita, “the little cat who was always throwing out sparks.”) “But papa, the Americano was seen by Don Tiburcio way south _en route_ to Chihuahua. It was he who saved Doren, the Yanqui’s boy. He would not be likely to be guilty of stealing then, would he?” Consuelo looked about the room for confirmation.