“Ex-priest?” exclaimed Hitt.
The man looked at him wonderingly. “Yes, señor. Why?”
“Oh, nothing––nothing. It is the custom to––to shoot ex-priests down here, eh?”
“Caramba! No! But this man––señor, why do you ask?”
“Well––it struck me as curious––that’s all,” returned Hitt, at a loss for a suitable answer. “You didn’t happen to know these men, I presume?”
“Na, señor, you seek to involve me. Who are you, that you ask such questions of a stranger?” The man reflected the suspicious caution of these troublous times.
“Why, amigo, it is of no concern to me,” replied Hitt easily, flicking the ashes from his cigar. “I once knew a fellow by that name. Met him here years ago. Learned that he afterward went to Simití. But I––”
“Señor!” cried the man, starting up. “Are you the Americano, the man who explored?”
“I am,” said Hitt, bending closer to him. “And we are well met, for you are Don Jorge, who knew Padre Josè de Rincón in Simití, no?”
The man cast a timid glance around the room. “Señor,” he whispered, “we must not say these things here! I leave you now––”