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Updated: June 12, 2025
He sat down in his chair, rested his hands on the arms, and once more encircled the company with his sightless gaze. "Not Manuel. Manuel was a good boy. But tell me now, is it that cachorra?" Here was something out of their calculations; something for them, mentally, to chew on. Mystification is a good thing sometimes.
When they assured him that the culprit would come back again indeed, much sooner than he expected, "with a rope around his neck," he shook his head slowly. "No, you shall not catch that cachorra now. But one day " There was something about its very colourlessness which made it sound oracular. It was at least prophetic.
What if he should be as sure of them as of his own soul? What, then, if he should strike? And what then, if it were not that cachorra after all? How many tens and hundreds of millions of people were there in the world? Was it possible for them all to have footfalls distinct and different? Then they would take him and hang him. And that cachorra might then come and go at his own will, undisturbed.
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