“I know it,” said Ezekiel, dryly. “I heard it all from your two friends. You're huntin' some man that did you an injury.”
“I'm hunting down a dog who, suspecting I had some secret in emigrating here, tried to blackmail and ruin me,” said Blandford, with a sudden expression of hatred that seemed inconsistent with anything that Ezekiel had ever known of his old master's character—“a scoundrel who tried to break up my new life as another had broken up the old.” He stopped and recovered himself with a short laugh. “Well, Ezekiel, I don't know as his opinion of me was any worse than yours or HERS. And until I catch HIM to clear my name again, I let the other slanderers go.”
“Wa'al, I reckon you might lay hands on that devil yet, and not far away, either. I was up at Demorest's to-day, and I heard Joan and a skittish sort o' Mexican young lady talkin' about some tramp that had frightened her. And Miss Pico said—”
“What! Who did you say?” demanded Blandford, with a violent start.
“Wa'al, I reckoned I heerd the first name too—Rosita.”
A quick flush crossed Blandford's face, and left it glowing like a boy's.
“Is SHE there?”
“Wa'al, I reckon she's visitin' Joan,” said Ezekiel, narrowly attentive of Blandford's strange excitement; “but wot of it?”
But Blandford had utterly forgotten Ezekiel's presence. He had remained speechless and flushed. And then, as if suddenly dazzled by an inspiration, he abruptly dashed from the room. Ezekiel heard him call to his passive host with a Spanish oath, but before he could follow, they had both hurriedly left the house.
Ezekiel glanced around him and contemplatively ran his fingers through his beard. “It ain't Joan Salisbury nor Dick Demorest ez giv' him that start! Humph! Wa'al—I wanter know!”