She went to the end of the shop and called the lad, who came instantly. “Tell me,” asked the shopwoman, “do you remember whether Merelli’s young man went occasionally to carry letters to a woman in service, in the house of the son of the country?”
“To Signor Mequinez,” replied the lad; “yes, signora, sometimes he did. At the end of the street del los Artes.”
“Ah! thanks, signora!” cried Marco. “Tell me the number; don’t you know it? Send some one with me; come with me instantly, my boy; I have still a few soldi.”
And he said this with so much warmth, that without waiting for the woman to request him, the boy replied, “Come,” and at once set out at a rapid pace.
They proceeded almost at a run, without uttering a word, to the end of the extremely long street, made their way into the entrance of a little white house, and halted in front of a handsome iron gate, through which they could see a small yard, filled with vases of flowers. Marco gave a tug at the bell.
A young lady made her appearance.
“The Mequinez family lives here, does it not?” demanded the lad anxiously.
“They did live here,” replied the young lady, pronouncing her Italian in Spanish fashion. “Now we, the Zeballos, live here.”
“And where have the Mequinez gone?” asked Marco, his heart palpitating.
“They have gone to Cordova.”