In his hand the sergeant held an open telegram.
“You speak Spanish?” he panted.
“A little,” said Dick. “French better.”
“I have no French, señor,” replied the sergeant, “But my business is not so much with you as with this gentleman,” he glanced at the telegram, “in the grey coat with the fur collar, the grey cap, the goggles in a grey felt mask, the small dark moustache, the grey buckskin gloves.” (Carmona had noticed everything.) “Our instructions are to prevent the Marqués de Casa Triana from going into Spain.”
“Casa Triana? What do you mean?” cried Dick. Then he laughed. “Is the person you're talking about a Spaniard?”
“He is, señor.”
Dick laughed a great deal more. “Well, I guess you'll have to look somewhere else. There's a mistake. The gentleman in the grey coat and all the other grey things has hardly enough Spanish to know what you're driving at.”
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and looked determined. “There is no mistake in my instructions, señor. I am sorry, but it is my duty to detain that gentleman. If there is an error there will be apologies.”
[pg 048] “I should say there jolly well was an error,” sputtered Dick, in his wild combination of Spanish and English and American. “George, show your card. He thinks you're a Spaniard, who's ‘wanted.’ ”
The gentleman in the grey coat showed the visiting cards of Mr. George Smith, and the Spanish soldier examined them gloomily. “Anybody might have these,” said he, half to us, half to a group of his countrymen. “Señor, I must reluctantly ask you to descend and to come with me. It will be much better to do so quietly.”