"Something else maybe, señor?"
"No—nothing," Kesley said. "I'm not very hungry."
"Too bad, señor. Has the trip north disturbed your appetite? The food you're accustomed to—"
Damned chatterbox, Kesley thought, irritated.
"My appetite is fine." He dropped a coin ringingly on the counter and walked out, into the warm, stale morning air.
Glancing around tensely, he let his hand slip to the hilt of his dagger. He caressed it absently for a moment, scowling. The minutes were crawling by like snails; the audience with Winslow would never come.
Dispiritedly, he turned his steps back toward the hotel. The desk-clerk looked up idly as he entered.
"Señor?"
"What is it?" Kesley snapped.
"The man from Duke Miguel—have you seen him?"