"It is the world, my friend," he said, sententiously. "These Americanos--come they here often?" "You know the great American advocate--our friend--Don Arturo Poinsett?" "Yes," said Victor, impatiently. "Comes he?" "Eh! does he not?" laughed Vincente. "Always. Ever. Eternally. He has a client--a widow, young, handsome, rich, eh?--one of his own race." "Ah! you are wise, Vincente!" Vincente laughed a weak spirituous laugh. "Ah! it is a transparent fact. Truly--of a verity. Believe me!" "And this fair client--who is she?" "Donna Maria Sepulvida!" said Vincente, in a drunken whisper. "How is this? You said she was of his own race." "Truly, I did. She is _Americana_. But it is years ago. She was very young. When the Americans first came, she was of the first. She taught the child of the widower Don José Sepulvida, herself almost a child; you understand? It was the old story. She was pretty, and poor, and young; the Don grizzled, and old, and rich. It was fire and tow. Eh? Ha! Ha! The Don meant to be kind, you understand, and made a rich wife of the little _Americana_. He was kinder than he meant, and in two years, _Carámba!_ made a richer widow of the Donna." If Vincente had not been quite thrown by his potations, he would have seen an undue eagerness in Victor's mouth and eyes. "And she is pretty--tall and slender like the Americans, eh?--large eyes, a sweet mouth?" "An angel. Ravishing!" "And Don Arturo--from legal adviser turns a lover!" "It is said," responded Vincente, with drunken cunning and exceeding archness; "but thou and I, Victor, know better. Love comes not with a brief! Eh? Look, it is an old flame, believe me. It is said it is not two months that he first came here, and she fell in love with him at the first glance. _Absurdo! Disparátado!_ Hear me, Victor; it was an old flame; an old quarrel made up. Thou and I have heard the romance before. Two lovers not rich, eh? Good! Separation; despair. The Señorita marries the rich man, eh?" Victor was too completely carried away by the suggestion of his friend's speech, to conceal his satisfaction. Here was the secret at last. Here was not only a clue, but absolutely the missing Grace Conroy herself. In this young _Americana_--this--widow--this client of her former lover, Philip Ashley, he held the secret of three lives. In his joy he slapped Vincente on the back, and swore roundly that he was the wisest of men. "I should have seen her--the heroine of this romance--my friend. Possibly, she was at mass?" "Possibly not. She is Catholic, but Don Arturo is not. She does not often attend when he is here." "As to-day?" "As to-day." "You are wrong, friend Vincente," said Victor, a little impatiently. "I was there; I saw her." Vincente shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with drunken gravity. "It is impossible, Señor Victor, believe me."