"Let me look at the note that Zeneta wrote you," he said.
"You will find it in my pocket, hanging behind the door. I was a fool. I was in too great a hurry. Now that I think of it, Zeneta would not have written a note like that."
"Then he never wrote it at all," said Sarrion, who had found the paper and was reading it near the window. The clear morning light brought out the wrinkles and the crow's-feet with inexorable distinctness on his keen narrow face.
"What does it mean?" he asked at length, folding the letter and replacing it in the pocket from which he had taken it.
Marcos roused himself with an effort. He was sleepy.
"I think it means that Evasio Mon is about," he answered.
"No man in the valley would have done it," suggested Sarrion.
"If any man in the valley had done it he would have put his knife into me when I lay on the road, which would have been murder."
He gave a short laugh and was silent.
"And the hand inside the velvet glove does not risk murder," reflected Sarrion, "They have not given up the game yet. We must be careful of ourselves."