“It was about money,” I replied.
“Ay,” she answered sagely, “it is always money or women.”
“My brother took funds belonging to the regiment, intending to repay them, but before he could do so they were missed.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “and then the fat was in the fire! Jail,” she continued, “is a terrible place for a young gentleman—indeed, it’s not very what you may call homey for anyone.”
“I believe it will break my brother’s heart,” I said. “I have told you this, Mrs. de Castro, because I think you feel kindly towards me.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” she mumbled.
“And I want you to keep this dreadful thing a dead secret?”
“I’ll do my best, and I’ll do anything for Miss Lucy’s friend; but the women who come here are just chock full of curiosity. They can see what you are, and they think it mighty queer your living in this small humble way. Well, I must compose some sort of a fairy tale to tell them.”
“Tell them that I’m eccentric,” I suggested; “that I come to you to be very, very quiet—tell them that I’m writing a book.”
“Yes, yes, that’ll do splendidly, and you can have your writing-table put in one of the little rooms, and keep yourself as much to yourself as you please, whilst I throw dust in their eyes.”