There was silence for some time, and at last the knife came up handlewise between the leaves of the hydrangea. Spanish pride is always ready to shut its eyes.
“But you must swear that what you tell me is true and that Juanita will join you in Argentina. Honour of a gentleman.”
“Honour of a gentleman,” repeated the voice; and the hand of a blacksmith came through the leaves, seeking Cartoner's grasp.
“They are turning the lights out,” said Cartoner, when the bargain was concluded. “But I will wait until it is safe to leave you here. Your friends the guardia civile do not arrive.”
“Pardon, Senor, I think I hear them.”
And the fugitive's ears did not err. For presently a tall man, white with dust in his great swinging cloak, stalked suspiciously among the tables, looking into each face. He saluted Cartoner, who was better dressed than the other frequenters of the Cafe of the New Gate, and passed on. A horrid moment.
“The good God will most likely remember that you have done this deed to-night,” said the voice, with a queer break in it.
“He may,” answered Cartoner, who was lighting his cigarette before going. “On the other hand, I may get five years in a Spanish prison.”