“I’m not particular.”
“ No es posible,” said Señor Copas firmly, as he dragged himself away to his kitchen.
“He doesn’t seem to like the idea,” said the Saint.
He was sitting beside her, at the communal table which half filled the dining room of the hotel. She broke a roll with her graceful, leisurely moving hands. He saw that her fingers were slender and tapering, delicately manicured, and one of them wore a wedding ring.
Fifth Avenue in the Fonda de la Quinta, in the shadow of the Sierra Madre, in the state of Durango in Old Mexico, which was a very different place.
“You know a lot about this country?” she asked.
“I’ve been here before.”
“Do you know the mountains?”
“Fairly well.”
“Do you know the bandits too?”