I laid my overcoat on the table and sat again in the little wicker chair. The shadows of the room were close around us now. In the heavy red of the light I could see only a corner of the table and the shaking figure of the little old man as he sat facing me. Behind him the solid blackness had crept up like a wall.
“Bien, señor. That is well. Now we talk.”
I felt my pulse quicken a little; but I held my gaze firm to his.
“Only to you, señor, would I say what now you shall hear.” His glance shifted upward into the darkness, then back again to mine.
“Francisco Goya, Velasquez, Sorolla y Bastida—all these great men of España are known to the señor. Is it not so?”
I nodded.
“But one there is—we shall call him Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál—of him the señor has never heard?”
“No,” I said; “I have never heard of him.”
He leaned forward in his chair again; his locked fingers in his lap writhed upon each other like little twisting snakes.
“A wonderful painter, señor, for he knew the secret to put life upon his canvas.” His voice fell to a sibilant whisper.