However, let us by all means make inquiries after your dissipated protege." He moved with alacrity to the house, leading the way now.
"By an odd chance," said Sarrion, following him more slowly, "I have conceived the idea that this man is an old friend of mine." "Then, my good Ramon, he must be an old friend of mine, too." "Francisco de Mogente." Mon stopped with a movement of genuine surprise, followed instantly by a quick sidelong glance beneath his lashes.
"Our poor, wrong-headed Francisco," he said, "what made you think of him after all these years?
Have you heard from him ?" He turned on the stairs as he asked this question in an indifferent voice and waited for the answer; but Sarrion was looking at the steps with a deep attention.
"See," he said, "there are drops of blood on the stairs.

There was blood in the street, but it had been covered with dust.

This also has been covered with dust--but the dust may be swept aside--see!" And with the gloves which a Spanish gentleman still carries in his hand whenever he is out of doors, he brushed the dust aside.
"Yes," said Mon, examining the steps, "yes; you may be right.

Come, let us make inquiries.

I know most of the people in this house.