“Assuredly, Senor Navarro. That is your name, I judge?”
“Yes; Emilio Navarro—quite Spanish, you see,” with a peculiar smile. “And your name?”
“Jack Ashley; residence, New York; occupation, newspaper man; paper, the Hemisphere; ever heard of it?”
“The newspaper is not a stranger to me. Pardon me a few minutes,” says Navarro, and he occupies himself in writing a somewhat lengthy letter, which he seals, without addressing, and hands to Ashley.
“Ashley, you are a man of honor,” he says, laying one hand upon the newspaper man’s shoulder. “Promise me that if anything happens to me to-morrow you will deliver that letter to a name I will whisper to you.”
“I shall do so with profound regret, sir. The name?”
“Don Manuel de Quesada. He resides in the Pueblo de Olivet, on the edge of Santos, four miles west of Santiago.”
Ashley places the letter in his pocket. “I will not fail you, if the occasion for my services should arise. But unless Huerta is more familiar with the American revolver than I believe him to be, I shall have the happiness of returning this document to you after you have filled him full of leaden satisfaction. How are you on the shoot, anyway?”
Navarro smiles grimly. “I have hit a playing card at fifty yards,” he says.
“Oh, well; that’s close enough marksmanship. I am beginning to feel sorry for Huerta.”