"We were from England, then?"
"Yes, but for the winter we were resident at Palma."
"Palma. So we lived in Palma?" Before her husband's translation to Pollensa a few months earlier, the señora explained, they also had lived in Palma. "In what part of Palma did we reside?"
"Well, not exactly in the town—just beyond the walls, at Son Españolet."
"At Son Españolet!" The señora confessed to having had a summer residence in Son Españolet.
"Our house is in the Calle de Mas—Number 23."
"In the Calle de Mas! Caramba! What a coincidence!" The señora's summer home had also been in the Calle de Mas—Number 26.
With this unexpected interest between us, we were soon all chatting away volubly, though, I fear, not always intelligibly. And when we bade the señora "Adios" to resume our quest, the señor kindly accompanied us.
With his aid we succeeded in unearthing an old woman who kept the keys that opened the treasures of the town.
One most interesting chamber held the records of Pollensa for many hundreds of years—from the earliest archives that were inscribed on parchment now brown with age, to the smart morocco-bound chronicles of the day before yesterday. The arms of the city—the three cypresses, the silver star, and the cock with a claw in the air, that had already become familiar to us—were there also.