The speed with which Leonardo leaped to defend the foreign woman enraged Isabel to such a degree that she rose to her feet, her features pale with rage, and delivered a frenetic accusation: “It would be the first time I had seen you so scrupulous. You weren’t like that with me.”

Startled by the abrupt attack, Cifuentes could do nothing but make threats: “Don’t say another word. That was a different story.”

“Yes, that was different, because Isidoro, my husband—listen to me say it: my husband—not what you were to me afterward —was more than your friend; he was your brother. Who was it who took you under his wing and forced his parents to take you into their home because you were only an orphan and the nuns treated you badly and let you go hungry . . . ?”

But Cifuentes had already recovered his aplomb and the insult left him unscathed. With an ironic inflection he answered, “You should be proud of yourself, Isabel. In order to win you, I didn’t hesitate to overlook the duties imposed on me by gratitude, friendship, decency itself. I made the wife of Isidoro Cifuentes fall in love with me while Isidoro Cifuentes was still alive. And I married his widow before his period of mourning was over.”

A final hope was dying in Isabel’s next question: “Why did you do it, Leonardo?”

Cifuentes shrugged, to strip the query of any importance, to keep from giving an answer.

“You don’t know! Well I do. Greed was what tempted you. Isidoro was rich.”

Like someone mustering up the patience to explain to a child or an imbecile a fact that is evident to the eyes of any normal person, Leonardo said, “You’ve always been extremely good at misunderstanding my motives. You misinterpreted me from the beginning. You thought the best way of keeping me tied to your apron strings was to keep the fortune you inherited away from me. That was a big mistake. I’m rich, too, Isabel. And I got rich without needing to touch a centavo of your inheritance.”

Bitterly Isabel had to admit this was true. “You’re a wealthy man. And you didn’t need any of what I could give you in order to become wealthy.”

Leonardo assumed an almost genuine expression of astonishment. “You knew that, Isabel? You’ll have to forgive me. I did whatever I could to hide it, but. . . .”

Isabel cut off the joke. “So you killed Isidoro Cifuentes for nothing.”

Leonardo hesitated an instant, only an instant, before answering. Not a muscle in his face had twitched. But in that instant of silence Isabel saw the patent sign of his guilt.

“The town gossips say I did. And you say so, too. But if it were true I wouldn’t be here; I’d be taking some hard knocks in a prison cell. Isidoro’s death was an unfortunate accident. No one can prove otherwise.”