“He had no heart, _señor_. What he saw he painted without pity. He
was, as you would say, a satirist.”
I had no idea that the painting before me was genuine—nor indeed did
I much care. But this little, withered old man, and his musty,
cobweb-laden shop, had about them something vaguely sinister that
fascinated me—a subtle sense of mystery I could not escape.
“I have studied art,” I said. “You interest me.”
Again I met his glittering eyes, and it struck me then, I think for
the first time, that there was in them a light that was not the
light of reason.
For an instant I could see him hesitate, and then as though he had
reached a sudden decision, he motioned me to a chair and seated
himself, facing me in the red glow of the lantern overhead.
“The _señor_ is very young,” he began softly; again he hesitated,
glancing swiftly over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that
there was no one else in the room. “Very young, _señor_, but
also—shall we say —very rich?”
His eyes were fastened upon mine; the red beam from the lantern
lighted his hollow cheeks with a weird, unearthly light. I took off
my hat and laid it on the table at my side.
“That need not concern us,” I said.
“_Muy bien, señor_. We understand each other _segurimente_. Of the
character I am judge—for I am an old _señor_, and many people have I
known.”
He pulled a watch from his pocket. “The hour is late. No one comes
to buy.” He rose to his feet and locked the door that led to the
street.
“That is better, _señor_.” He came back toward me with his
tottering, dragging step, and switched off the amber light in the
ceiling. “The _señor_ will remove his storm-coat?”
I laid my overcoat on the table and sat again in the little wicker
chair. The shadows of the room were close around us now. In the
heavy red of the light I could see only a corner of the table and
the shaking figure of the little old man as he sat facing me. Behind
him the solid blackness had crept up like a wall.
“_Bien, señor_. That is well. Now we talk.”