That morning Watson Scott had a visitor who gave his name as Alvarez Lazaro.
Lazaro was a slender man of medium height, with snow-white hair and face that seemed to indicate he had passed through great suffering of some sort, for it was strangely drawn and deeply lined. His age seemed uncertain, but Scott, who was an excellent judge, would have placed him well along in the fifties, although his step and carriage was like that of a much younger man.
He was expensively dressed, wore a big sable overcoat, and had on his fingers a number of rings set with precious stones.
Old Gripper surveyed the visitor with unusual interest. There was something about the man that fascinated him—something that attracted, yet repelled.
"I'll not take up much of your time, Señor Scott," said Lazaro, in a soft, musical voice. "I know you are a very busy man. I have called to make inquiries about this railroad they say is soon to be built in my country. I hear you are president of the company."
Scott knitted his heavy brows. "Where had he heard that voice before?" he asked himself.
"You are from Mexico, Mr. Lazaro?" was his question.
"I am, señor."
"What do you wish to know about the Central Sonora Railroad?"
"It is settled that the road will be constructed?"