Doubtless the Senora was like all the English, a heretic, and
therefore, according to the comfortable tenets of the Roman faith,
eternally damned, but a little prayer would do no harm, and would be
counted to herself as an act of charity.
That ceremony over, more mundane considerations engrossed her mind.
She could smell the pungent odour of the _olla podrida_, or national
stew, insinuating itself through the half-open door, and she knew that
if she were not present at the meal, there would be more than one
hungry mouth ready to devour her share.
She drew a breath of relief as she marched heavily downstairs to the
more congenial surroundings of the kitchen. She had done her duty.
Senor Poleski had not told her to stay in the room all the time he was
away, and she could easily be back again before he came in.
Michael was the first to appear, almost aggressively sober, and
carrying a small wooden box. His interest in his case was as much
human as professional, and instead of wasting the afternoon, after his
usual custom, loafing and drinking, he had gone, after one modest glass
of the rough _Val de Penas_, to search in out-of-the-way streets for a
certain herbalist of repute.
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