“Four hundred dollars! He wasn’t robbed, Tony! And here’s a picture—a kid’s picture!”
Tony crowded close to look at it.
“That’s too bad,” muttered Johnny. “Thought maybe I might recognize it. That was hopin’ for too much. But it’ll help some day. That’s a clew! I’ll just freeze on to it.”
Putting the small photograph into his pocket, he proceeded to replace the other things in the old saddlebag. Tony watched him for several minutes. The Basque’s face showed dismay. At times he could not understand his gringo friend. He felt ignored now. Johnny caught the signs of distress.
“But, Tony, you didn’t know the kid. You was back in that dear Spain when that little photo was snapped. Muchachito, you go to bed. Tomorrow we got plenty work to do. I got a clew now.”
“Clew? Damn my soul, Johnny, you talk like deeteckteeve.”
“Companero, you string along with me. We’re goin’ to see the sights before this thing’s over.”
Tony went to sleep; not so Johnny. He brought forth the photograph which he had found, and sat for half an hour studying it; trying to whip his mind into finding some likeness in it to some one he knew.
“That’s all I got,” he murmured. “It’s got to tell me somethin’.”
He placed the picture on the bed before him, and bent over it, his eyes screwed into a squint. Minutes slipped by unnoticed. Something vaguely reminiscent about the photograph began to torture him. Try as he would, he could not say what it was that was playing a sort of mental hide and go seek with him. At times he wondered if he were not the prey of his own desires. And yet, a little voice persisted within him. There was something here that stirred memories!