“I never lose, young man.”
“Neither do I,” replied Quentin.
“We’ll have to give this lad a lesson,” said the gipsy, “to teach him how to talk to quality folk.”
“Be quiet, Cantarote,” said the little man in the calañés. “This gentleman is a man, and talks like a man, and we are going to drink a few glasses this very minute to celebrate our meeting.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Quentin.
“Well, come on. This way, please.”
Quentin followed the little fellow through a small door and down three or four steps to a corridor, through which they reached a dark cellar. It was dimly lighted by several lamps which hung on wires from the ceiling. Seated upon benches about a long, greasy table, were gathered a dozen or so persons, of whom the majority were playing cards, and the rest drinking and chatting. Upon entering the cellar, Quentin and the little man in the calañés made their way to a small table, and sat down facing each other. The blackened lamp, hanging by a wire from a beam in the ceiling, distilled a greenish oil drop by drop, which fell upon the greasy table.
The little man ordered the innkeeper to bring two glasses of white wine, and while they waited, Quentin observed him closely. He was a blond individual, pale, with blue eyes, and slender, well-kept hands. To Quentin’s scrutinizing glance, he responded with another, cool and clear, without flinching.
At this point, a queer, ugly-looking man who was talking impetuously, and showing huge, yellow, horselike teeth, came toward the table and said to Quentin’s companion:
“Who is this bird, Señor José?”