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“Well, what then?” cried Don Rafael, impatiently, when he had minutely inspected them, turning the sandals with his foot as he stared at the animal.

“Oh, nothing,” answered the major-domo; “I am perhaps a fool, but the ranchero is gone.”

Don Rafael started—fell into a deep study—turned away—came back, and laid his hand upon the major-domo’s arm. This was the first suggestion that had been advanced of the possibility of the murderer having sought his victim from within the walls of the great house. “Silencio!” he said; “what matters it to us how the man died? There is more in this than behooves you or me to meddle with.”

The two men looked at each other. “Why disturb the Señora Doña Isabel with such matters? The American is dead. The ranchero can be nothing to her,” said Don Rafael, sententiously. “He who gives testimony unasked brings suspicion upon himself. No, no! leave the matter to his countrymen; they have a consul here who has nothing to do but inquire into such matters.”

“True, true! and one might as well hope to find again the wildbird escaped from its cage, as to see that Juan Planillos! God save us! if he was indeed the true Juan Planillos!” and the mystified major-domo actually turned pale at the thought. “They say he is more devil than man; that would explain how he got out of the hacienda, for Pedro Gomez swears he let no man pass, either out or in.”