All seemed in order, and the fellow’s explanation seemed to be quite feasible—save for the fact that I distinctly remembered bolting the door. Nevertheless I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him.
“Come along to my room, señor,” he urged. “I will show you my identity papers. I have to offer you a thousand apologies.”
I followed him to a room near the end of the corridor, where he quickly produced documents and papers showing that his name was Juan Salavera, an advocate, who lived in the Calle de Vittoria, in Burgos. He showed me the portrait of his wife and child which he carried in his wallet and a small painted miniature of his mother, and other proofs of his integrity, including a case well filled with notes.
“I trust, señor, that you will no longer accuse me of being a thief!” he said. “Our encounter would have been distinctly amusing had we not so frightened each other as we have done.”
I laughed, for I felt convinced that he was a respectable person, and I really began to feel uncomfortable.
Indeed, I muttered an apology for my rather rough behaviour, and at the same time I noticed upon the left side of his neck a deep scar probably left by an abscess.
“My dear señor, it was quite forgiveable in the circumstances,” he declared, offering me a cigarette and taking one himself. “I had supper at a restaurant after the theatre to-night and ate something which had disagreed with me. Half an hour ago I felt faint, so I rose and went to find my friend Pedro Espada, who came with me from Burgos, and I entered your room in mistake. He must be in the room next yours.”
“Shall we seek him?” I asked.
“No. I feel much better now, thanks,” was his reply. “The fright has chased away all faintness! Besides, we should have to go down to the office and ascertain in which room he really is. I shall be all right now,” he assured me.
He went on to say that he had come to Madrid in connexion with a large estate in Granada, to which a client of his had laid claim.