“Then there isn’t much use in looking for him there,” replied Ortiz. “But no matter. Heave, ho, my lads! Let’s try it, anyway.”
They strolled along the Paseo de Yeserías. On both sides of the Toledo Bridge gleamed the gas-lamps; here and there a narrow ribbon of the river sent back reflections from its dark waters. From the direction of Madrid, out of the Gas House chimneys issued red flames like dragons of fire. From the distance came the whistle of a locomotive; along the banks of the Canal the silhouettes of the trees writhed upward into the gloom of the night.
They found the sereno of Las Cambroneras and asked after El Bizco.
“I’ll talk tomorrow with Paco el Cañí and find out. Where shall we meet tomorrow?”
“In La Blasa’s tavern.”
“Fine. I’ll be there at three.”
They crossed the bridge once more and went into Casa Blanca.
“We’ll see the administrator,” said Ortiz. They entered a causeway; to one side, they knocked at a place the half-opened door of which showed a chink of light. A man in shirt-sleeves came out.
“Who is it?” he shouted.
Ortiz gave his credentials.