Raising her voice, Mabel called out politely: “Buenos dias, señor.”
The man made no effort to doff his sombrero in response to this hail. Neither did he leave off smoking his cigarette.
“I spik English,” he announced in a sulky tone that suggested affront rather than appreciation of being thus addressed in his native tongue.
“So much the better for us then.”
Patsy now became spokesman. There was a gleam of lively resentment in her gray eyes, born of the man’s ungracious behavior.
For an instant the two regarded each other steadily. Something in the girl’s resolute, unflinching gaze caused the man’s small black eyes to waver. He glimpsed in that direct glance the same determined will he had already discovered the “Señor Carroll” possessed.
As if unwillingly impelled to break the silence he mumbled sulkily: “What do you desire?”
“To ask you a few questions,” tersely returned Patsy. “My father tells me that you used to work for Mr. Fereda, the old Spanish gentleman who once owned this estate. So you must know something of the Feredas, and also of the few persons who live in this vicinity.”
Patsy’s former intent to be affable had completely vanished. Decidedly miffed by the man’s too evident surliness, she spoke almost imperiously.