In a moment or two Sam Penhallow entered the dining-room, his good-natured face a trifle puzzled.
“Mabel said——” he began.
Polly smiled. “Yes, isn’t she clever at managing things? You see, Mr. Penhallow, it’s a case of ‘Kind Captain, I’ve important information.’ Won’t you sit down?”
Sam sat down.
“In the first place, one of those Mexicans who had dinner here to-night is Juan Pachuca—the man who held up our mine a few days ago.”
“What? Why didn’t you say so before? I’d have——”
“I didn’t think quick enough,” admitted Polly, “and for another thing I knew that if Mr. Scott saw him there would be trouble. He has reasons for disliking Pachuca—apart from the raid, at least, he thinks he has.” Polly blushed in spite of herself.
“I get you,” responded Penhallow, instantly.
“I thought you would. You seem to me like that sort of a man. Now, I want to ask you something; did you ever hear of a Mexican named ‘Gasca’ who lived around here?”
Penhallow, a little mystified, seemed to be thinking.