“Shot at Salado?”
“Neither that, Excellentissimo.”
“Then he must be here?”
“He is here, your Excellency.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kearney—Florence Kearney, un Irlandes.”
A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna’s features, a sort of knowing look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of him on a matter relating to this same man—Florence Kearney; in short, to obtain clemency for the young Irishman—full pardon, if possible. But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for his application—as also who it originated from—Santa Anna had conceived suspicions.
Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply inquiring—
“Is the Irlandes at Tacubaya?”
“No, your Excellency; he’s in the Acordada.”