By full daylight, men from the town were in the convent with lamps and the grandfather’s old drawing, which Soledad surrendered, tracing the passages one by one.

They found the crypt access behind a false panel exactly where she said it would be.

They found the little underground room where Matías had been living for years — a filthy nest of stolen blankets and stolen food, and, stacked against one wall, the first of what he had been carrying out: chapel silver wrapped in sacking, a carved saint from the mountain chapel, a strongbox of alms.

He himself was gone deeper into the passages, but the tunnels did not run forever, and there were now more men than exits.