And he returned to the boliche and sat down with his friends, waiting for the hour stipulated by the great señora.
Robledo and Watson were at that moment finishing their supper.
Someone knocked at the door.
They were both astonished to see Torre Bianca come in; he was so thoroughly covered with dust that his black clothes looked grey, and his hair and mustache were completely white.
“I’ve just come back from Fuerte Sarmiento, from poor Pirovani’s funeral.... Moreno brought me back in his carriage.”
Robledo invited him to sit down at the table.
“Have some supper here, if you don’t feel that you must go at once to your house.”
Torre Bianca shook his head.
“I do not intend to go back to my house.”
He spoke with such decision that Robledo stared at him. So tense were the nerves of the marqués that his hands shook and his tongue stumbled over the words he spoke.