“Excuse me,” Sard said. “But is there no Spanish lady here?”
“Spanish lady?” Hilary asked. “You asked me that before. No. You may mean Tia Eusebia: she’s coloured.”
“You’ll speak to your sister about this warning,” Sard said. “And tell her everything that I have told you.”
Hilary answered coldly that naturally he would. The thought came to Sard with the pain of a blow that the dreams were all lies, and that once again he had failed to find her.
“Is anything the matter, Mr. Harker?” Hilary asked.
“A little queer,” Sard said. “Don’t come any further. I’ll let myself out. I must hurry. But tell me . . . Are you Spanish?”
“No,” Hilary answered, looking at him oddly, “I’m English.”
“Right, then. Good-bye. And I hope all will go well.”
“Good-bye and thanks.”
Sard hurried away, trying to pull himself together. He knew that Hilary thought him mad or drunk. Hilary watched him as far as the gates: then waved a hand and turned back to the house. “Odd beggar,” Hilary thought, “a very odd beggar. I didn’t half like the looks of him. He seemed to me to be as mad as a hatter. And asking me if I am Spanish. And whether I kept a Spanish lady!”