“Spain.”
He turned away with a little nod, but stopped before he had gone many paces.
“And when are you going to write those sketches of Spanish life?” he asked, with a cheery society laugh, which sounded rather incongruous. “Never, I suppose. Well, the loss is mine. Good-night, Lloseta.”
He went away without looking back.
“Do you know who that is?” the Count asked Fitz when the door was closed.
Fitz had risen, with his eye on the clock.
“No. But I seem to know his face.”
The Count looked up with a smile.
“You ought to. That was John Craik.”