“One moment,” interrupted Orme. “I can’t very well give up that bill until I know a little better what it means. You will have to show me that you are entitled to it—and”—he smiled—“meantime you’d better smoke.”
Senhor Poritol sighed. “I can assure you of my honesty of purpose, sir,” he said. “I cannot tell you about it. I have not the time. Also, it is not my secret. This bill, sir, is just as good as the other one.”
“Very likely,” said Orme dryly. He was wondering whether this was some new counterfeiting dodge. How easily most persons could be induced to make the transfer!
A counterfeiter, however, would hardly work by so picturesque and noticeable a method, unless he were carefully disguised—hardly even then. Was Senhor Poritol disguised? Orme looked at him more closely. No, he could see where the roots of the coarse black hair joined the scalp. And there was not the least evidence of make-up on the face. Nevertheless, Orme did not feel warranted in giving up the marked bill without a definite explanation. The little man was a comic figure, but his bizarre exterior might conceal a dangerous plot. He might be a thief, an anarchist, anything.
“Please, my dear sir, please do not add to my already very great anxiety,” pleaded the visitor.
Orme spoke more decisively. “You are a stranger, Senhor Poritol. I don’t know what all this mystery conceals, but I can’t give you that bill unless I know more about it—and I won’t,” he added, as he saw Senhor Poritol open his mouth for further pleading.
“Very well,” sighed the little man. He hesitated for an instant, then added: “I do not blame you for insisting, and I suppose I must say to you everything that you demand. No, I do not smoke the cigar, please. But if you do not object—” He produced a square of cigarette paper and some tobacco from a silver-mounted pouch, and deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand, accepting a match from Orme with the other. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the smoke deeply, breathing it out through his nostrils.
“Well—” he hesitated, his eyes roving about the room as if in search of something—“Well, I will explain to you why I want the bill.”
Orme lighted a fresh cigar, and settled himself to hear the story. Senhor Poritol drew a second handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow.
“You must know, my very dear sir,” he began, “that I come from a country which is very rich in the resources of nature. In the unsettled interior are very great mineral deposits which are little known, and since the day when the great Vega made the first exploration there has been the belief that the Urinaba Mountains hide a great wealth in gold. Many men for three hundred years have risked their most precious lives to go look for it. But they have not found it. No, my dear sir, they have not found it until—But have patience, and you shall hear everything.