That weary but unbowed antagonist of hunger and despair, after shrugging his shoulders, considered the matter, while Sebastian waited. "Why do you suppose," he asked at length, "that the giver of this thing was a man?"
"I do not suppose it," cried Sebastian. "I never did suppose it. The cross has been worn"—he passed his finger over its smooth back—"and recently worn. Men do not carry such things about them, unless they are——"
"What this gentleman is," said Don Luis. "A woman gave him this. A wench."
Sebastian bowed, and with sparkling eyes re-adjusted his inferences.
"That being admitted, we are brought a little further. M does not stand for Manvers—for what gentleman would give himself the trouble to engrave his own name upon a cross? It is the initial of the giver's name—and observe. Señor Don Luis, he is very familiar with her, since he knows her but by one." He looked through his shop window to the light, as he began a catalogue. "Maria—Mariquita—Maritornes—Margarita— Mariana—Mercedes—Miguela——" He stopped short, and his eyes encountered those of his friend, fast upon him, ominous and absorbing. He showed a certain confusion. "Any one of these names, it might be, Señor Don Luis."
"Or Manuela," said the other, still regarding him steadily.
"Or Manuela—true," said Sebastian with a bow, and a perceptible deepening of colour.
"In any case—" Don Luis rose, removed a speck of dust from his capa, and adjusted his beaver—"In any case, my friend, we may assume the 12th of May to be our gentleman's birthday. Adios, hermano."
Sebastian was about to utter his usual ceremonial assurance, when a thought drove it out of his head.
"Stay, stay a moment, Don Luis of my soul!" He snapped his fingers together in his excitement.