Things were much the same at the cigar-shop. McKay walked boldly in and found La Zandunga, as usual, behind the counter, but alone. She got up, and, not recognising him, bowed obsequiously. Officers were rare visitors in Bombardier Lane and McKay's staff-uniform inspired respect.
"You are welcome, sir. In what can we serve you? Our tobacco is greatly esteemed. We import our cigars—the finest—direct from La Havanna; our cigarettes are made in the house."
"You do not seem to remember me," said McKay, quietly. "I hope Mariquita is well?"
"Heaven protect me! It is the Sergeant—"
"Lieutenant, you mean."
"An officer! already! You have been fortunate, sir." La Zandunga spoke without cordiality and was evidently hesitating how to receive him. "What brings you here?"
"I want to see Mariquita." The old crone stared at him with stony disapproval. "I have but just arrived from the Crimea to buy horses and mules for the army."
"Many?" Her manner instantly changed. This was business for her husband, who dealt much in horseflesh.
"Thousands."
"Won't you be seated, sir? Let me take your hat. Mariqui—ta!" she cried, with remarkable volubility. The guest was clearly entitled to be treated with honour.