She fixed an uneasy glance on the policeman.
“But what is the matter, Senhor? The master and mistress are out. If I had known, I should not have opened the door; no, indeed. Has anything happened?”
“It is nothing,” answered Sebastião, opening the door of the parlor. “Everything can be quietly arranged.”
He himself lighted one of the candles, causing the gilded picture-frames to stand out indistinctly from the surrounding darkness, and casting a gleam on the pallid countenance of the portrait of Jorge’s mother.
“Sit down, Senhor Mendez, sit down,” he said to his companion.
Mendez sat down on the edge of a chair, his hand on his hip and his sabre between his knees, maintaining all the while a grave countenance.
“This is the person,” said Sebastião, pointing to Juliana, who stood petrified with terror at the door.
“Senhor Sebastião, what jest is this?” she cried, retreating with a pallid countenance.
“It is nothing, nothing.”
He took the light, and touching her on the arm said, “Let us go inside to the dining-room.”