"An angel. Ravishing!"
"And Don Arturo—from legal adviser turns a lover!"
"It is said," responded Vincente, with drunken cunning and exceeding archness; "but thou and I, Victor, know better. Love comes not with a brief! Eh? Look, it is an old flame, believe me. It is said it is not two months that he first came here, and she fell in love with him at the first glance. Absurdo! Disparátado! Hear me, Victor; it was an old flame; an old quarrel made up. Thou and I have heard the romance before. Two lovers not rich, eh? Good! Separation; despair. The Señorita marries the rich man, eh?"
Victor was too completely carried away by the suggestion of his friend's speech, to conceal his satisfaction. Here was the secret at last. Here was not only a clue, but absolutely the missing Grace Conroy herself. In this young Americana—this—widow—this client of her former lover, Philip Ashley, he held the secret of three lives. In his joy he slapped Vincente on the back, and swore roundly that he was the wisest of men.
"I should have seen her—the heroine of this romance—my friend. Possibly, she was at mass?"
"Possibly not. She is Catholic, but Don Arturo is not. She does not often attend when he is here."
"As to-day?"
"As to-day."
"You are wrong, friend Vincente," said Victor, a little impatiently. "I was there; I saw her."
Vincente shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with drunken gravity.