She gave a little growl and attempted to free herself by a sudden wrench, but he held her, and she stood sullenly beside him as the train wandered in and gave up its load. In a few moments she had forgotten her grievance and stared at him with expanded eyes.
“Let us go to the telegraph-office,” he said. “Mr. Moulton must have sent a message.” But at the office there was naught but the official and the cigarito and polite indifference.
“They missed the train, that goes without saying,” said Over. “They are sure to arrive in the morning, I should think, as they can travel comfortably enough at night first class. Will you ask what time the morning train arrives?”
It was due nearly an hour before the train would leave for Granada.
“You will hear your nightingales to-morrow evening,” said Over, cheerfully. “The Moultons will never stay here all day.”
With this assurance they parted, Over sleeping in another little blue-washed room—the entire fonda had been reserved for the Moultons—and the next morning they drank their coffee from the barrel-top, while their kind and now indifferent landlady made tortillas for the party.
The train arrived on time, and without the Moultons. In the telegraph-office the gentleman of leisure was still smoking, but after inquiring indolently into Over’s name and rank, and demanding to see his cards and correspondence, he produced a telegram. It read:
Toledo, Hotel Castilla.Moulton.
“Toledo!” cried Catalina. “I want to go to Granada! That is what I came to Spain for. If they go north that far they won’t come south again—they will take the steamer at Genoa. I won’t go.”
“It is by no means certain they won’t return; it is only a matter of a day. Doubtless they are still dodging Jesus Maria. I think we had better join them. It is useless to expect explanations by wire. Granada can wait a few days, and Toledo, in its way, must be quite as interesting.”