‘He was very tall and straight, like a soldier, and had a moustache quite light in colour, like straw.’ ‘Ah yes. The English are so. And he left a letter?’ ‘Yes, reverendo.’ ‘A rose-coloured letter—?’ ‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him with surprise. ‘And tell me what happened afterwards. I may perhaps be able to help you, my child, if you tell me all you know.’ ‘And then, reverendo, the police brought back the Colonel who had been murdered in the streets—and I who had his Excellency’s dinner on the table waiting for him!’ ‘And—’ ‘And Sebastian ate the dinner, reverendo.’ ‘Your husband appears to be a man of action,’ said Concha with a queer smile. ‘And then—’ ‘Sebastian sent me on a message to the town, and when I came back he was gone and all his Excellency’s possessions were gone—his papers and valuables.’ ‘Including the letter which the Englishman had left for the Colonel?’ ‘Yes, reverendo. Sebastian knew that in these times the papers of a politician may perhaps be sold for money.’ Concha nodded his head reflectively and took a pinch of snuff with infinite deliberation and enjoyment. ‘Yes—assuredly, Sebastian is one of those men who get on in the world—up to a certain point—and at that point they get hanged. There is in the universe a particular spot for each man—where we all think we should like to go if we had the money. For me it is Rome. Doubtless Sebastian had some such spot, of which he spoke when he was intoxicated. Where is Sebastian’s earthly paradise, think you, my child?’ ‘He always spoke of Madrid, reverendo.’ ‘Yes—yes, I can imagine he would.’ ‘And I have no money to follow him,’ sobbed the woman, breaking into tears again. ‘So I came to Ronda, where I am known, to seek it.’ ‘Ah, foolish woman!’ exclaimed the priest severely, and shaking his finger at her. ‘Foolish woman to think of following such a person. More foolish still is it to weep for a worthless husband, especially in public, thus, on the church steps, where all may see. All the other women will be so pleased. It is their greatest happiness to think that their neighbour’s husband is worse than their own. Failure is the royal road to popularity. Dry your tears, foolish one, before you make too many friends.’ The woman obeyed him mechanically with a sort of dumb hopelessness. At this moment a horseman clattered past, coming from Ronda and hastening in the direction of Bobadilla or perhaps to the Casa Barenna. He wore his flat-brimmed hat well forward over the eyes, and kept his gaze fixed upon the road in front. There was a faint suggestion of assumed absorption in his attitude, as if he knew that the priest was usually at the church door at this hour, and had no desire to meet his eye. It was Larralde.