"Our poor, wrong-headed Francisco," he said, "what made you think of him
after all these years? Have you heard from him?"

He turned on the stairs as he asked this question in an indifferent voice
and waited for the answer; but Sarrion was looking at the steps with a
deep attention.

"See," he said, "there are drops of blood on the stairs. There was blood
in the street, but it had been covered with dust. This also has been
covered with dust--but the dust may be swept aside--see!"

And with the gloves which a Spanish gentleman still carries in his hand
whenever he is out of doors, he brushed the dust aside.

"Yes," said Mon, examining the steps, "yes; you may be right. Come, let
us make inquiries. I know most of the people in this house. They are poor
people. In my small way I help some of them, when an evil time comes in
the winter."

He was all eagerness now, and full of desire to help. It was he who told
the Count's story, and told it a little wrong as a story is usually
related by one who repeats it, while Sarrion stood at the door and looked
around him. It was Mon who persisted that every stone should be turned,
and every denizen of the great house interrogated. But nothing resulted
from these inquiries.

"I did not, of course, mention Francisco's name," he said,
confidentially, as they emerged into the street again. "Nothing was to be
gained by that. And I confess I think you are the victim of your own
imagination in this. Francisco is in Santiago de Cuba, and will probably