"He told me, but I have forgotten."
"Was it to London?"
"I do not think so. It may have been. He would see great sights, I remember he said."
"And the name of this Englishman."
"That I do not know. He always called him 'my friend the Englishman.'"
"But did he not write to you? Did you not correspond?" asked Mrs. Beltrán, eagerly.
"He sent me one post-card, but almost immediately I left Barcelona. My father was ill. I was needed in the fields. I go at once, and have but now returned. I am again at the mill. Here I am told one day that Señor Garriguez wishes news of Pepé. I am sent to this señor. He tells me that the mother and sister of Pepé are here seeking news of him. They wish to see me and I come. I bring with me the post-card. I am nothing of a writer, señorita. I make a poor fist at it. I can sign my name and but little more, but I brought the card." He produced a picture post-card carefully wrapped in a bit of paper.
Mrs. Beltrán took it eagerly. "Nita, Nita, see!" she cried. "It is something tangible at last. A piece of his own handwriting." She gazed at it fondly. "His name, his dear name as he writes it. And this place—what is this place?" She held the card to the light that they might both make out the name of the place which the picture represented. It was the cathedral at Chichester. "I am well and I like England. I have seen this cathedral. It is not much like Santa Cruz," were the words written.
"Chichester! In Sussex! My own county, Anita," cried Mrs. Beltrán. "It is there that we must go. He may have been only passing through, yet it is a straw to snatch at. I thank you. I cannot say how much I thank you for bringing this." She turned to the young man at the same time tendering him the card.
"Will you not keep it, señorita?" he said.