"I do not really care to sell them, señor," said the swarthy jeweler,
"unless I get my price. You cannot get another pair like them. I know
who made them! They were made for an artist who came here expressly
with the design. He wished to make a present to a certain woman."
"Una Méjicana?"
"No, Americana."
"Fair, with dark eyes--about twenty, perhaps, at that time--a little
rosy?"
"Why, did you know her? They used to call her Josefita. You know he
killed her? Jealousy. They found her still smiling, as if she had been
struck while asleep. A 'punal.' I got the earrings back at a sale."
"And the artist?"
"Died at P--, mad! Some say he was mad when he killed her. If you
really want the earrings, I will let you have them for sixty pesos.
They cost a hundred and fifty."