But Watson seemed to be in low spirits; he offered no explanation beyond saying that as there was no work that day, he was going out on a long ride.
When he had gone, Robledo finished dressing, walking up and down in the living room as he did so. Passing by the door of Torre Bianca’s bedroom he felt tempted to open it and go in. He wanted to see his friend. A vague presentiment made him uneasy.
“How had poor Federico spent the night?” he wondered.
He opened the door, and looking in, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. There was no one in the room. The bed, on which the bed-clothes hung tossed about in disorder, was empty. Robledo stood for several minutes trying to think out a solution for the mystery. He concluded that Federico, not being able to sleep, must have gone out to walk as soon as it grew light.
Instinctively he looked scrutinizingly about the room. He noticed some sheets of paper on the table, all of them bearing the beginnings of a letter in Torre Bianca’s handwriting. He had evidently felt it useless to continue any of them.
Robledo picked one of them up. “Thank you for all you have done ... but I can’t go on—” another one began, “The only woman who ever really loved me was my mother, and she is dead. If only I could feel sure of seeing her again—”
Robledo looked at some of the other sheets. They contained nothing but crossed out and unintelligible phrases. Torre Bianca had done his best to write and had finally given it up. Robledo could see his friend in the late hours of the night throwing down his pen ... he had just picked it up off the floor ... and saying with the scorn of one who already considers himself above earthly cares: “What does it matter....”
He stood with the papers in his hand, trying to determine what he had best do. Then it occurred to him that perhaps the marqués was wandering about up at the dam. These scrawls of his gave evidence of indecision ... at such a time wouldn’t he be likely to go to the place where he had been happiest in La Presa, to the scene of his work?
He examined the ground outside the house carefully and gave an exclamation of satisfaction at distinguishing among the fresh tracks of Watson’s horse, a man’s foot prints. They must be Torre Bianca’s!
The tracks led down an alley between his house and the neighboring one, and then came out on the open. Once outside the town, he lost the traces of the footprints among the many tracks made by those who had passed in and out of the settlement that morning.