“Zacariah,” responded the New Yorker. “I don’t like the name, myself. Never use it.”
“Ah, yes! Now that I remember, I have met others—there is a name Zebulon, I think, eh? Yes, Zebulon. So you are the gentleman of whom your firm wrote me, eh? I am glad to meet you, señor, very glad. You have letters and so forth? You see, I am part owner of this property, señor, and while I do not doubt you in the least, I desire to make quite sure of things before talking business.”
Laying down his knife and fork, Premble once again inspected Coravel Tio, who was now looking directly at him. Something in those gentle, mournful black eyes seemed to cause the city man uneasiness and disquiet. He reached into his pocket, nodding.
“Eh? Sure, I have plenty of papers that will establish my identity and prove my authority to deal with you. A little bit hasty, aren’t you? No trouble, though. Glad to have you assure yourself——”
He produced a sheaf of papers and passed them intact, as though entirely certain of their contents, to Mrs. Crump. That lady, her keen blue eyes suddenly perplexed and watchful, handed on the papers to Coravel Tio. The latter, in silence, began to unfold and look at them, one after another. Premble continued his meal, and fell to talking with the others.
Presently Coravel Tio came to the end of his cigarette. He rose and tossed the butt through the open doorway, where Gilbert was lounging. His eyes snapped a message to those of Gilbert; in turn, Gilbert made a slight motion. Lewis rose and shoved aside the curtain from the window, as though desiring more air, and then stood watching.
Coravel Tio returned to his stool. At another pause in the conversation, he tapped the refolded documents on his knee.
“These are all correct, Mr. Premble,” he said, gently. “Do you know—ah, there is something that puzzles me! Now, when I had the pleasure of meeting you in Las Vegas last month, your name was different; it was Zebulon and not Zacariah. And you looked different, señor. Then, if I remember rightly, you wore a moustache, and your eyes were another colour, and you had a stronger chin than you have at present.”
A sudden tense silence had come upon the room. James Z. Premble looked very red, then his features paled again. Imperceptibly, his right hand fluttered toward his left armpit.
“Don’t do it!” said Lewis, from the window, and Mr. Premble gazed into the muzzle of a revolver. And: “Go slow!” said Gilbert, from the doorway, carelessly fondling another revolver. Mr. James Z. Premble set both hands upon the table in front of him.