A man greeted the horseman as he entered—a stout man with bulging cheeks and puffy eyes. He breathed wheezily, and his hands moved with a strange restlessness.
They hailed each other in the Andalusian dialect, and the newcomer ordered "Café c'leche."
"Well, friend?" asked the stout man, when the waiter had disappeared. "What is the news?"
He spoke in English.
"The best," replied the other in the same language. "T. B. is finished."
"No!"
"It's a fact. Ramundo shot him at close range, but the devil went down fighting. They've got Ramundo."
The fat man snorted.
"Isn't that dangerous?" he asked.
"For us, no; for him, yes," said the man carelessly. "Ramundo knows nothing except that he has been living in the lap of luxury in London on the wages of an unknown employer."