Tripulante burst into laughter, and placing the index finger of his right hand upon his lower eyelash, he whispered:
“On the track!... And mum’s the word, comrade!”
“Very well. Keep your eyes open just the same, in case he shows up. Remember we know you.”
“Leave that to me, señor Ortiz,” replied the youth. “I’ll keep a sharp watch.”
The officer and Manuel left the café.
“He’s a slippery article, as clever as any crook. Let’s go further down. Perhaps El Tripulante is right.”
They reached the Ronda de Toledo. The night was beautiful, atwinkle with stars. Afar, some bonfires lighted the sky. Out of the chimney of the Gas House belched a huge black swirl of smoke, like the powerful exhalation of some monster. They sauntered along the Calle del Gas, which, as if to provide a contrast to its name, was illuminated by oil-lamps; skirting the Casa Blanca they descended to Las Injurias. They crossed a narrow street and fairly stumbled against the night watchman.
Ortiz told him what mission brought them there; he gave him a description of El Bizco. The sereno, however, informed them that nobody answering to that description was to be found in that vicinity.
“We can make inquiries, if you gentlemen wish.”
The three penetrated a narrow passageway that led to a mud-strewn patio.