They ran through the whole house and looked into every corner. Nothing.
“Ah!... Now I know where he went,” said the innkeeper, “that way,”—and he pointed to the door in the patio. He lit a lantern and examined the steps one by one to see if there were any tracks in the dust. There was some discussion as to whether the traces they found were Quentin’s or not, but when they saw the closed door upstairs, nearly all of them were of the opinion that he could not have passed that way.
“Nevertheless,” said El Cuervo, “we’ll keep on going.” He opened the door, climbed to the attic, and saw the boards which had been torn down to allow free passage to the roof.
“He escaped through here.”
“What can we do?” asked Pacheco.
“A very simple thing,” replied El Cuervo; “surround this whole block of houses. He is probably waiting for it to get dark before he leaves, so perhaps we can catch him yet.”
“Good,” said Pacheco; “let’s go downstairs right away.”
The idea seemed an admirable one to all those who were in the tavern. Pacheco placed them on guard, and told them to warn the watchmen.
With the hope of pay, the whole gang of ruffians firmly stood their posts. Now and then they returned to the tavern for a glass.
Day dawned, and Pacheco’s men were still walking the streets, now hopeful, now with no hope at all.