“But—I got up so early yesterday. I was worn out.”
And Lucía rubbed her eyes as if they were still heavy with sleep. Then taking from her hair two or three hair-pins, she fastened back the rebellious braids with them.
“You say,” questioned the traveler, “that you have come from Leon?”
“Yes, Señor. The wedding was at eleven in the morning, but I had to get up early to arrange about the refreshments,” said Lucía, with the simplicity of a girl unaccustomed to social usages. “It was half-past three when we left Leon.”
The traveler looked at her, beginning to understand the mystery. The girl gave him the key to the woman.
“I might have known it,” he said to himself. “You traveled together as far as Venta de Baños?” he asked Lucía aloud.
“Yes, yes; we took supper there. Miranda, no doubt, stayed there to check the luggage.”
“Impossible. The operation of checking the luggage is always over in time for the passengers to take the train. Some unforeseen accident, some mischance must have occurred.”
“Do you think—tell me frankly—that he could have left me on purpose?”
So childlike and real a grief was depicted on Lucía’s countenance as she uttered these words, that the serious lips of the traveler were once more involuntarily curved in a smile.