Lazaro halted.
Frank had stopped in his tracks, his eyes fastened on the man.
A moment they stood thus, and then the Mexican bowed, saying with cold politeness:
"Your pardon, señor. You are in my way."
That voice gave Merry a greater thrill than had the sight of the man's face. It was like one speaking from the grave, for the low, gentle voice had all the soft music of one Frank believed forever stilled by death.
And those eyes—they were the same. But that snow-white hair and the deeply furrowed face—how different!
Yet about the man's face there was something that strongly reminded the youth of Porfias del Norte.
"I beg your pardon," said Merry, in turn. "But the sight of you gave me a start. For a moment I fancied I knew you—that we had met before."
"But now you realize your mistake, señor; now you know we have never met until this moment."
"It is not likely that we have; but still you remind me powerfully of a man by the name of Porfias del Norte."