"Yes. I talked with Scott. He's weak and almost helpless. Can barely wiggle a finger, but he can talk, and his mind is not affected."
"Why, the paper said he was very comfortable this morning."
"He may be; but I'd rather see him more frisky."
"You do not apprehend a serious termination?"
"I hope not. Scott has a constitution like iron, and he won't die easily. Still, I shall be worried if he shows no signs of improvement to-day. Do you know, he told me that the man he dined with last night was a Mexican. I haven't much use for them. Found one here talking to Casimer a short time ago—a fellow with the whitest hair I've ever seen."
Frank started.
"I believe I've seen that man," he said. "He passed us in the park."
"He was parley vooing with Casimer and bothering him," said Hatch. "I politely informed him that I was in a hurry, and asked him not to bother my chauffeur. Say, he turned and looked at me with a pair of black eyes that seemed as dangerous as loaded pistols. 'I beg your pardon, señor,' he purred. 'If I have bothered your chauffeur or delayed you in the least, I am very sorry. I trust you may get started soon and meet with no more serious accident to-day than this little breakdown.' I swear there was something in his manner so offensive that I felt like hitting him, and yet he was the very soul of politeness."
Frank nodded, and Hatch noted a singular expression on the face of the youth.
"What are you thinking of?" he inquired. "Something is running through your head."