“Partly,” admitted Mon, holding up one finger.  “Because, my friend, none but the foolish are poor in this world.”

“Then why has the good God sent so many fools into the world?”

“Because He wants a few saints, I suppose.”

Mon was still trying to lead him away from that threshold and Sarrion still stood his ground.  Their half-bantering talk suddenly collapsed, and they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment.  Both were what may be called “ready” men, quick to catch a thought and answer.

“I will tell you,” said Sarrion quietly, “why I am going into this house.  I have long ceased to take an interest in the politics of this poor country, as you know.”

Mon’s gesture seemed to indicate that Sarrion had only done what was wise and sensible in a matter of which it was no longer any use to talk.

“But to my friends I still give a thought,” went on the Count.  “Two nights ago a man was attacked in this street—­by the usual street cutthroats, it is to be supposed.  I saw it all from my balcony there.  See, from this corner you can perceive the balcony.”

He drew Mon to the corner of the street, and pointed out the Sarrion Palace, gloomy and deserted at the further end of the street.

“But it was dark, and I could not see much,” he added, seeming unconsciously to answer a question passing in his companion’s mind; for Mon’s pleasant eyes were measuring the distance.

“I thought they brought him in here; for before I could descend help came, and the cutthroats ran away.”

“It is like your good, kind heart, my friend, to interest yourself in the fate of some rake, who was probably tipsy, or else he would not have been abroad at that hour.”

“I had not mentioned the hour.”

“One presumes,” said Mon, with a short laugh, “that such incidents do not happen in the early evening.  However, let us by all means make inquiries after your dissipated protege.”

He moved with alacrity to the house, leading the way now.

“By an odd chance,” said Sarrion, following him more slowly, “I have conceived the idea that this man is an old friend of mine.”

“Then, my good Ramon, he must be an old friend of mine, too.”

“Francisco de Mogente.”

Mon stopped with a movement of genuine surprise, followed instantly by a quick sidelong glance beneath his lashes.

“Our poor, wrong-headed Francisco,” he said, “what made you think of him after all these years?  Have you heard from him?”

He turned on the stairs as he asked this question in an indifferent voice and waited for the answer; but Sarrion was looking at the steps with a deep attention.

“See,” he said, “there are drops of blood on the stairs.  There was blood in the street, but it had been covered with dust.  This also has been covered with dust—­but the dust may be swept aside—­see!”