In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and looked
up into his face.

"No, my child, no," answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with a
tenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. The
stick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossa
in the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is a
coincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him of
it."

Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face into
darkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid that
she should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba.

"I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and to
hear that you were well. And now I must go."

She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroidery
of her sleeves, for all that she wore was of the best that Saragossa
could provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never known
other, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always had
it.

"I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, with the
ever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery."

"No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed."

She paused with her hand on the door, looking back, her face all shaded