Such was the mood in which Pepé presently listened to the disconnected dialogue between Pedro and the guest, who was hampered by a language strange to him, and by suspicious caution on the part of the gatekeeper. For the first time in his life, Pepé was struck by a peculiarity in Pedro with which he had always been acquainted; namely, his unwillingness to speak of the tragedy, which to other minds had seemed no more horrible than scores of others that had occurred in the neighborhood and were common subjects of conversation. As he listened, Pepé became conscious that Pedro was detracting from the interest of the tale rather than adding to it; and when the young American at last said inquiringly, “And the cause of this murder was never known? There was no woman—” he was startled that Pedro answered not with the old jest, “Was there ever an evil but that a woman was at the root of it?” but rose and strode rapidly away.
“There was a woman,” muttered Ward, looking after him, “and the gatekeeper knew her. I have found the man who can tell me of Herlinda.”
He spoke in English, but Pepé the eager listener caught the name “Herlinda.” Five minutes later, when Ward turned to speak to the youth, he found him with his hands clasped, stretched out before him, his eyes staring into vacancy.
“Idiot!” was the half contemptuous, half pitying comment of the American. Little guessed he that the conversation that had seemed to result in so little to him had offered both a suggestion and an inspiration to the peasant,—the very key to the problem which he had himself come so far and dared so much to solve.
XXVII.
Upon the following day, Ashley Ward went again to the gateway,—not merely to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the view, but irresistibly attracted by the remembrance of the taciturn warder. The more he reflected upon the emotion the man had shown when his eyes first rested upon him, a stranger, as he had entered the vestibule; the more he thought upon the guarded replies to the questions he had asked concerning the young American who had been there years before,—the more convinced he became that there had been a mystery which had led to his kinsman’s death, and that Pedro, if he would, could divulge it.
Was it possible the man himself was the assassin? The perplexed youth began to sound Pepé cautiously as to the reputation Pedro had borne. But the young fellow was absorbed in other matters, of which Ashley rightly conjectured Chinita was the vital point, and was wandering and curt in his answers. Yet he seemed to feel that Ashley divined, if he did not comprehend, his pain, and so attached himself to him and followed him about, much as might a wounded dog some stranger who had spoken to him with an accent of pity in his voice.
So when Ashley went to the gateway, it was Pepé’s arm that aided him, though with the impatience of a young man he protested against this need of a crutch, and had actually walked steadily enough across the court, under the gaze of Doña Feliz and Chinita, who happened to be in the window; but he had been glad to clutch at Pepé as they entered the vestibule. The lad was not trembling then, but erect and flushed: Chinita had smiled upon him as he passed.
Pedro was standing in the gateway, shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing toward the cañon which opened behind the reduction-works. He did not notice Ashley and Pepé, but presently began to mutter: “Yes, it is they. Don Rafael has had a lucky journey. Go thou, Chinita, and tell Doña Feliz the master and her daughter-in-law and children will be here for the noon dinner.”
Pepé laughed derisively. “You forget, Pedro,” he said; “it is the niña Chinita, and the Señorita Chinita now; even if she heard, she is scarce likely to run at your bidding. But are you sure the Señor Administrador comes there? If so, I will myself go and tell them.”