The man spoke Spanish and was well past middle age, of a very spare figure, and his face was very thin, although there was a deep flush on his cheeks.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Tom in Spanish. He touched the stranger's cheeks, which were hot with fever.
Then Tom slid off his poor captive and squatted beside him. Reaching for the man's left wrist and resting two fingers on his pulse, Tom added, gently:
"Tell me all about it, senor."
"There is not much to tell," panted the stranger, weakly, for Tom's landing on him had jarred him severely. "I am sick, as you can see."
"Oh, that isn't much," said Tom, blithely. "With decent care you will soon he well. It is plain that you are a gentleman—no peon. Yonder, some distance, is a house where I think you are very likely to be well taken care of. Don Luis Montez—"
Despite the hectic flush in the cheeks, the stranger's face paled visibly. Tom, always observant, noted this.
"Oh, I see," Reade went on, calmly. "You do not like Don Luis
Montez, or you do not care about going to his house."
The stranger gazed up wistfully at the young engineer's kindly face.
"Senor," he asked, "you would not betray me?"