“How can I tell, Señor?”
“Why did you let him take the horse?”
“You had not so forbidden, Señor.”
“Humph! I told you to bring him here—for me.”
“Ten thousand pardons, Señor. To bring him here, yes. For whom—that was not mentioned.”
There was no virtue in anger, so Rupert Disbrow forced a laugh; then looked up to find the youthful eyes of wrinkled Marta watching him with a keen amusement which plainly explained the affair. Crossing to where she leaned against the doorframe he lifted his helmet and asked:
“Madam, may I have a word with you?”
“Many, if it so pleases the Señor.”
He looked past her into the great kitchen, through which a swiftly rising breeze swept refreshingly, and remarked:
“It feels like a storm. Do they often visit this locality?”