“To me, at least, you are La Reina de los Indios.”
“Ah, well, Senor,” she said with a low laugh; “every queen, I fancy, should have at least one subject. And now—supposing that I am this queen you talk of—what is it you want of me?”
“We always used to be friends, Sajipona. Can we not be friends still?”
“There’s another strange question! But—surely you did not come here to ask me that? There is something else, Don Raoul,” she added, regarding him intently.
“It is that, first of all. And then—I had it in mind to tell you that my friend is returning to Bogota—David Meudon.”
“David Meudon,” she repeated, as if pondering the name, looking steadily at Raoul the while.
“But then—what is that to me, Senor?” she asked.
“You remember him?”
“Yes, of course I remember him. He has been away a long time, hasn’t he?” Then, after a pause: “Why does he come back?”
“To solve a mystery—so he writes me.”