“On the contrary,” Merry smiled back, “I find it quite interesting. To me Spain is a land of romance. Being a plain American, the tales of those deadly feuds are fascinating to me. I presume the Costolas must have possessed large estates in Spain?”
“Once they did.”
“And the one you speak of—the one who was compelled to flee from the country—was he wealthy?”
“I believe he was reckoned so at one time.”
“And now,” said Frank, “if this feud were ended, if any offense of his were pardoned, could he not claim his property?”
“That I don’t know,” declared Dulzura, shaking his head.
“Well, then, if he has any descendants, surely they must be the rightful heirs to his estate.”
“I doubt, sir, if they could ever possess it. It must eventually be divided among his living relatives.”
“Ah!” cried Merry. “I understand, Mr. Dulzura, why you must have a particular interest in visiting Spain. It seems probable that you, being distantly related to this exiled nobleman, may finally come into possession of a portion of his property.”
“It’s not impossible,” was the confession, as the man in advance rolled a fresh cigarette. “But I am not counting on such uncertainties. Although my grandfather and my father both died poor, I am not a pauper myself. To be sure, I am not immensely rich, but my vineyards support me well. I have lived in this country and in Mexico all my life. In fact, I feel that I am more American than anything else. My father could not understand the democracy of the Americans. He could not understand their disregard of title and royalty.”