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“Who told you where I lived?” he asked.

“Someone over at the academy.”

“And who told you where the academy was?”

“The Superman.”

“Ah! The great Langairiños.... And tell me: how long have you been out of work?”

“A few days.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Whatever turns up.”

“And if nothing turns up?”

“I think something will.”

Roberto smiled banteringly.

“How Spanish that is! Waiting for something to turn up. Forever waiting.... But, after all, it’s not your fault. Listen to me. If you can’t find a place where to sleep during the next few days, stay here.”

“Fine. Many thanks. And your inheritance, Don Roberto? How is it coming?”

“Getting along little by little. Within a year you’ll behold me a rich man.”

“I’ll be happy to see the day.”

“I told you already that I imagined there was a plot on the part of the priests in this affair. Well, that’s exactly how the matter stands. Don Fermín Núñez de Letona, the priest, founded ten chaplaincies for relations of his bearing the same name. Knowing this, I inquired about these chaplaincies at the Bishopric; they knew nothing; several times I asked for the baptismal certificate of Don Fermín at Labraz; they told me that no such name appeared there. So, a month ago, in order to clear up the matter, I went to Labraz.”