Before making any inquiries, Craig gave a hasty look about the
lobby. Suddenly I felt him take my arm and draw me over to a
little alcove on one side. I followed the direction of his eyes.
There I could see young Alfonso de Moche talking to a woman much
older than himself.
"That must be his mother," whispered Craig. "You can see the
resemblance. Let's sit here awhile behind these palms and watch."
They seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation about
something. Even as they talked, though we could not guess what it
was about, it was evident that Alfonso was dearer than life to the
woman and that the young man was a model son. Though I felt that I
must admire them each for it, still, I reflected, that was no
reason why we should not suspect them--perhaps rather a reason for
suspecting.
Senora de Moche was a woman of well-preserved middle age, a large
woman, with dark hair and contrasting full, red lips. Her face, in
marked contradiction to her Parisian costume and refined manners,
had a slight copper swarthiness about it which spoke eloquently of
her ancestry.
But it was her eyes that arrested and held one's attention most.
Whether it was in the eyes themselves or in the way that she used
them, there could be no mistake about the almost hypnotic power
that their owner possessed.
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