Clarence raised his eyes, caught a subtle yellow flash from Incarnacion's, gazed at him suddenly, and rose.
“I don't think I have ever seen him,” he said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me the spur. But keep the knowledge of it to yourself, good Nascio, for the present.”
Nascio nevertheless still lingered. Perceiving which, Clarence handed him a cigarette and proceeded to light one himself. He knew that the vacquero would reroll his, and that that always deliberate occupation would cover and be an excuse for further confidence.
“The Senora Peyton does not perhaps meet this Pedro in the society of San Francisco?”
“Surely not. The senora is in mourning and goes not out in society, nor would she probably go anywhere where she would meet a dismissed servant of her husband.”
Incarnacion slowly lit his cigarette, and said between the puffs, “And the senorita—she would not meet him?”
“Assuredly not.”
“And,” continued Incarnacion, throwing down the match and putting his foot on it, “if this boaster, this turkey-cock, says she did, you could put him out like that?”
“Certainly,” said Clarence, with an easy confidence he was, however, far from feeling, “if he really SAID it—which I doubt.”
“Ah, truly,” said Incarnacion; “who knows? It may be another Senorita Silsbee.”