The Teniente shook his head.
“Oh, terrible, terrible! Where on the face of the earth is he hiding Luis? Is my husband still alive? To think Nestor has evaded even your grasp, Señor Teniente! Ay! This is
terrible!”
But Romulito kept pacing back and forth, not having even touched the merienda served by Ineng, the muchacha. Nestor Macaraig was in his old home; that meant he still had business in this town.
Not demanding ransom for Don Luis only confirmed it. It could only mean . . .
“I—I think I’ve found a way to solve all this.”
Over the cup, the Teniente’s eyes glanced sideways at Romulito. The comandante’s face seemed very much like earlier that morning in the carruaje. The Indio recalled: that was how the
Teniente looked whenever he saw anything particularly interesting, like an ex
