“Where what was?” asked Manfred quickly, and Mr. Washington was surprised.
“Why, the writing they wanted to get. I thought maybe he’d told you. He said he was coming right along to spill all that part of it. It was a letter he’d found in a tin box—that was all he’d say.”
They looked at one another.
“I know no more about it than that,” Mr. Washington added, when he saw Gonsalez’ lips move. “It was just a letter. Who it was from, why, what it was about, he never told me. My first idea was that he’d been flirting round about here, but divorce laws are mighty generous and they wouldn’t trouble to get evidence that way. A man doesn’t want any documents to get rid of his wife. I dare say you folks wonder why I’ve come along.” Mr. Washington raised his steaming cup of coffee, which must have been nearly boiling, and drank it at one gulp. “That’s fine,” he said, “the nearest to coffee I’ve had since I left home.”
He wiped his lips with a large and vivid silk handkerchief.
“I’ve come along, gentlemen, because I’ve got a pretty good idea that I’d be useful to anybody who’s snake-hunting in this little dorp.”
“It’s rather a dangerous occupation, isn’t it?” said Manfred quietly.
Washington nodded.
“To you, but not to me,” he said. “I am snake-proof.”
He pulled up his sleeve: the forearm was scarred and pitted with old wounds.