“We shall look upon it together, you and I.” He raised a hand apologetically. “That is, of course—if the señor desires.” The mystery his words implied appealed to me—I was in my twenties then—and to the spirit of adventure that has always been strong in me. It was chicanery, I knew, but interesting, and I would see it through.
“Very well,” I said. “I will look at your painting.”
In silence I followed him into the shadows of the back of the room.
“Careful, señor—a chair is here.”
He suddenly drew aside a curtain in the darkness, and we stepped into a dim hallway, with a narrow flight of stairs leading to the floor above.
“I shall go in front, señor. You will follow. The way is not long, and there is light.”
The stairs were narrow and uncarpeted; they creaked a little under our tread. On the landing a window stood partly open, its shade flapping in the wind. The snow on the ledge outside had drifted in over the sill.
We stopped on the landing, and the old man closed the window softly.
“We speak not so loud now, señor, so—” He broke off abruptly. “It is better we speak not so loud now,” he finished.
At the top of the stairs we turned back and passed through a doorway into a room that evidently was immediately over the one we had just left.