“Did she speak English?”
“It was likely, monsieur.” Nearly all of the Ethenard-Eskurolas spoke English, because one of their so numerous ancestors was the great Don Miguel Ricardo d’Alava, general under the Duke of Wellington, who valued him above all his generals in that Spanish campaign. Since then there had always been English teachers for the children of the house. So much was common knowledge.
It was enough for Cartaret. Within the hour he was summoning the proprietor of his hotel to his assistance in arranging for an expedition to Alegria.
The hotel proprietor stroked a beard so bristling as to threaten his caressing fingers.
“It is a wild country,” he remarked.
“That’s what they all say,” returned Cartaret. “When does the next train leave for it?”
“There is no train. Alegria is a little town in the high Cantabrian Mountains, far from any train.”
“Then come along downtown and help me buy a horse,” said Cartaret. “I saw a lot of likely-looking ones this morning.”
“But, monsieur,” expostulated the hotel proprietor, “nobody between here and Alegria speaks French. Nobody in Alegria speaks French—and you do not speak Eskura.”
“What’s that?”