Part 47

“It’s for your goodwill I thank you in advance. And this is for your bull-fighter, as a present from his novia.”

I took out my scarf-pin. Her face flushed with pleasure, as it would have flushed for no sum of money. She might have waived away a present for herself, but she could not resist one for the novio, and I was thanked far beyond the gift’s merit.

If she went to bed happy, so did I, for I believed that Monica would have my letter in the morning; and if the wistfulness in her eyes meant some new trouble in which I had a part, I hoped that the words I had written might banish it.

XXIV

THE GOODWILL OF MARIQUITA

Nevertheless I could not sleep on my hard but clean pillows, for wondering about that look of Monica’s, and its meaning; and whenever I shut my eyes, hordes of red and yellow figures poured out of white houses upon white roads, forming irritating, kaleidoscopic patterns on my tired retina.

Each hour that passed was cried by the watchman, far away, and then close under my window; a fearsome cry like a groan of agony uttered by a madman in a dying spasm.

I was glad when morning came; and after such a bath as two or three miniature jugs of water afforded (the deer-eyed boy wondered in the name of all the saints what I could do with so many), I threw off the brain-clouds of a sleepless night.

Before long Monica would have my letter. She would know—if she could have doubted—that if I had loved her at first, I worshipped her now. She would know why we had not followed more closely yesterday; and why—unless Carmona chose to accept our help again—we would go on before the grey car to-day. She would know also that my most earnest hope was to take her away, out of the reach of harm.

I was dressed, and had had my coffee and hard, fat roll of Spanish bread, by half-past seven, as I was sure Ropes would be wanting to see me. I would not have disturbed Dick, who slept in a room across the patio, but I found him in the dining-room, wrestling with a glass of thick chocolate and a finger-shaped sweet biscuit. “I’m trying to like Spanish customs,” said he.

I laughed.

“Because, if I’m going to carry through that scheme of mine about motor traffic, I may have to live on the spot, you see.”

“Oh!” said I. “And what about Colonel O’Donnel’s copper mines? Have you thought of a means to persuade him it’s his duty to have them worked?”

“In a way, I have,” Dick answered dryly. “An indirect sort of way. What about our gasoline? Heard anything about it?”

“No. I’m going to find Ropes.”

“Rather a sell for Carmona, if he did order our bidons pricked, to feel it’s his fault if we’re held up as long as he is.”

“There’s Ropes in the patio,” I said. “I’ll go and interview him.”

“What news?” I asked.

“Well, sir, I did what the landlord said last night, and had a try for moto-naphtha—as they call it here—at the chemist’s.”

“Did they have any?”

“Oh yes, sir, they had some. As much as a pint apiece, in the two shops. They wanted to sell it by the ounce.”

Dick and I laughed, though my mirth was not care-free. I had visions of being stuck at this place until Ropes made a journey to Madrid and back, Carmona’s car slipping away long before we were ready.

“I was afraid it was hopeless to look for petrol here,” I said, striving for resignation, even though I saw Mariquita going upstairs with two battered tins of hot water.

“Not yet, sir. A man who heard me asking for moto-naphtha at the chemist’s, advised me to try the cemetery.”

“The cemetery? You misunderstood the word.”

“No, sir; it was cemetery. And what’s more, he said the Mayor keeps it there to kill lobsters.”

This statement, delivered somewhat nervously, was received with derision.

“The fellow was stuffing you,” said Dick.