“Why?”
“I do not know. Perhaps because Spain rules them—so much as any power could. But I know nothing: the lord at the castle knows.”
“What’s his name?”
The question fell thoughtlessly from the lips of the American, but he had no sooner uttered it than he surmised its answer:
“The Don Ricardo Ethenard-Eskurola d’Alegria.”
Cartaret produced a gold-piece and spun it on the rude table before him.
“An important man, isn’t he?”
The innkeeper was eyeing the money, but his reply was cautious:
“How—‘important’?”
“Rich?”