"Where?"
"Near the Estación del Norte, where I was an employee."
"Say no more!" exclaimed Zureda. "I worked for the same company, myself. I was an engineer."
"On what line?"
"Madrid to Bilbao."
Slowly and silently memories began to rise and group themselves together in the enormous, black forgetfulness of those twenty years. Amadeo Zureda took out his tobacco-box and offered tobacco to his companion. Whatever seemed to have been lacking to awaken memory, in the other's appearance or in his voice, was now instantly supplied as the engineer saw him take the fine-cut, roll a cigarette, light it and afterward thrust it into the left corner of his mouth. The memories of the old convict were flooded with light.
"Enough of this!" cried he. "You are Don Adolfo Moreno!"
"That's right, I'm the man!"
"You were a conductor on the Asturias line when I worked on the one running to Bilbao. Don't you remember me? Amadeo Zureda?"
"Yes, indeed!"