"You mean to Don Luis?"
A weak nod was the answer.
"Rest easy on that score, my friend," Tom begged, dryly. "Don Luis and I are not on the best of terms. I do not like him very well myself."
"Will you help to hide me here, and then go away and be silent?"
"Go away and leave you here?" suggested Reade.
"Yes, senor. It will be a great favor."
"It would be murder," Tom retorted. "Man, you're ill and you need care—nursing. I don't know much about doctoring, but if you have any reason why you don't want Don Luis to know you're here, then I'll do the best I can for you here. I have a chum who'll help me. You have been traveling for some time?" Tom continued, his glance taking in the stranger's well-worn shoes and trousers.
"That is true, yes," nodded the stranger.
"You've been over a rough road, also," Tom continued, "and now you're ill. Your pulse is a hundred and twenty, and you're breathing thirty-two times to the minute. You must have a good bed, be covered comfortably and have plenty of water to drink while we're getting some medicines for you."
"You are indeed kind, but I fear," protested the stranger, "that you will attract attention my way, and then I shall be captured."