“I did,” said Appleby, taking the envelope. “Where did you find it?”
The peon smiled in a curious fashion. “It seems you know our country. I took it from the man Vincente felled, but it did not seem wise to mention it before the civiles. They have sharp eyes, those gentlemen.”
“I am indebted,” said Appleby. “It is, however, of no importance.”
The peon smiled again. “And yet you knew you had lost it, and said nothing. Why would one run a risk to seize a letter?”
“I don’t know,” said Appleby. “Nor am I sure why you and your companion should take so much trouble to guard a stranger. I would not, of course, offend you by suggesting that you did it to repay me for a glass of Vermouth.”
“For the charity then?” said the peon, smiling.
“I do not think so,” said Appleby, who looked at him steadily.
The man laughed. “Well,” he said reflectively, “there may have been another reason. It is known to a few that Don Bernardino is a friend of liberty.”
Appleby was a trifle astonished, but not sufficiently to show it, since he had already had vague suspicions.
“It is,” he said, “a thing one does not admit in Santa Marta, but if one might reward a kindness with money I have a few dollars.”