“Yes.  I have a letter of introduction to him.”

“Oh, you have a letter of introduction to Don Simon! if you will come into the street I will show you the way.”

Whereupon we went outside, and the posadero, pointing out the church of San Ildefonso, told me that the large house over against the eastern door was the house I sought.

“Gracias, senor,” I said, as I started on my errand, taking the shady side of the street and walking slowly, for the day was warm.

I walked slowly and thought deeply, trying to make out what could be the meaning of the glances which the mention of Senor Ulloa’s name had evoked, and there was a nameless something in the posadero’s manner I did not like.  Besides being cringing, as usual, it was half mocking, half menacing, as if I had said, or he had heard, something that placed me in his power.

Yet what could he have heard?  What could there be in the name of Ulloa to either excite his enmity or rouse his suspicion?  As a man in authority, and the particular friend of an ex-president of the Audiencia Real, Don Simon must needs be above reproach.

Should I turn back and ask the posadero what he meant?  No, that were both weak and impolitic.  He would either answer me with a lie, or refuse to answer at all, qui s’excuse s’accuse.  I resolved to go on, and see what came of it.  Don Simon would no doubt be able to enlighten me.

I found the place without difficulty.  There could be no mistaking it—­a large house over against the eastern door of the church of San Ildefonso, built round a patio, or courtyard, after the fashion of Spanish and South American mansions.  Like the church, it seemed to have been much damaged by the earthquake; the outer walls were cracked, and the gateway was encumbered with fallen stones.

This surprised me less than may be supposed.  Creoles are not remarkable for energy, and it was quite possible that Senor Ulloa’s fortunes might have suffered as severely from the war as his house had suffered from the earthquake.  But when I entered the patio I was more than surprised.  The only visible signs of life were lizards, darting in and out of their holes, and a huge rattlesnake sunning himself on the ledge of a broken fountain.  Grass was growing between the stones; rotten doors hung on rusty hinges; there were great gaps in the roof and huge fissures in the walls, and when I called no one answered.

“Surely,” I thought, “I have made some mistake.  This house is both deserted and ruined.”

I returned to the street and accosted a passer-by.

“Is this the house of Don Simon Ulloa?” I asked him.

“Si, Senor,” he said; and then hurried on as if my question had half-frightened him out of his wits.

I could not tell what to make of this; but my first idea was that Senor Ulloa was dead, and the house had the reputation of being haunted.  In any case, the innkeeper had evidently played me a scurvy trick, and I went back to the posada with the full intention of having it out with him.