trying to rouse him from his habitual frigidity. But Roberto gave her
no heed.

Some days later the house was agog with curiosity.

As the boarders came in from the street, they greeted each other
jokingly, repeating in the manner of a pass-word: "Who is Don Telmo?
What's Don Telmo doing?"

One day the district police-commissioner came and spoke to Don Telmo,
and some one heard or invented the report that the two men were
discussing the notorious crime on Malasana Street. Upon hearing this
news the expectant inquisitiveness of the boarders waxed great, and
all, half in jest and half in earnest, arranged to keep a watch upon
the mysterious gentleman.

Don Telmo was the name of the cadaverous old fellow who wiped his cups
and spoons with his napkin, and his reserved manner seemed to invite
observation. Taciturn, indifferent, never joining the conversation, a
man of few words who never made any complaints, he attracted attention
by the very fact that he seemed intent upon not attracting it.

His only visible occupation was to wind the seven or eight clocks of
the house and to regulate them when they got out of order,--an event
of common occurrence.

Don Telmo had the features of a very sad man,--one in profound sorrow.
His livid countenance betrayed fathomless dejection. He wore his white
beard and his hair short; his brows fell like brushes over his grey
eyes.