“All righta—I espeak Engleesh—I am Jose Castro too well known to the Maestro. I want to see ’im.”
The Girl’s intuition told her that a member of the band stood before her, and she regarded him suspiciously. Not that she believed that he was disloyal and had come there with hostile intent, but because she felt that she must be absolutely sure of her ground before she revealed the fact that Johnson was in the cabin. She let some moments pass before she replied:
“I don’t know nothin’ about your master. Who is he?”
An indulgent smile crossed the Mexican’s face.
“That ver’ good to tella other peoples; but I know ’im here too much. You trusta me—me quita safe.”
All this was said with many gestures and an air that convinced the Girl that he was speaking the truth. But since she deemed it best that the invalid should be kept from any excitement, she resolved to make the Mexican divulge to her the nature of his important errand.
“How do you know he’s here?” she began warily. “What do you want ’im for?”
The Mexican’s shifty eyes wandered all over the room as if to make certain that no inimical ears were listening; then he whispered:
“I tella you something—you lika the Maestro?”
Unconsciously the Girl nodded, which evidently satisfied the Mexican, for he went on: