Hagan stared at this man in amazement.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am Alvarez Lazaro, of Mexico," was the answer, in that same soft, musical voice that had so startled the Irishman.
"But that voice—that voice!" muttered Hagan. "And those eyes! Man, ye gave me a start! Why do you come here? What do you want?"
"I have come to meet the enemies of Frank Merriwell."
"The divvil ye say!" cried Hagan, his excitement flinging him into the brogue he so nearly avoided in quieter moments. "Why do ye come here for that?"
"Because I know you both are his enemies."
"And you—if I didn't know Porfias del Norte to be dead and buried—— But even then you'd not be the man. You're thirty years older; but you have a little of his looks and his voice in perfection."
"Do you think so? Then perhaps it came through my long acquaintance with him. Dear friends sometimes acquire each other's mode of speech and little mannerisms, it is said."
"Were you Del Norte's friend?"