And he held out, under the rays of the lamp, the sword-stick he had picked up in the Calle San Gregorio.
She looked at it and then at him with startled eyes.
"Of course," she said. "It is the sword-stick I sent papa for the New Year. You ordered it yourself from Toledo. See, here is the crest. Where did you get it? Do not mystify me. Tell me quickly--is he here? Has he come home?"
In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and looked up into his face.
"No, my child, no," answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with a tenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. The stick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossa in the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is a coincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him of it."
Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face into darkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid that she should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba.
"I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and to hear that you were well. And now I must go."
She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroidery of her sleeves, for all that she wore was of the best that Saragossa could provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never known other, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always had it.
"I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, with the ever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery."
"No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed."