“Oh, he’s all right,” said Pachuca, airily, as the girl hesitated. “He’s the manager of the Athens mine—Marc Scott—a very decent fellow. I regret being deprived of your company, señorita, but he evidently intends to take you back with him.”
“Any baggage?” demanded Scott, gruffly.
“One trunk,” replied Polly, rather dazed by the suddenness of the affair. “But it’s back at Conejo.”
“Want any help with that car?”
“No, thank you, the young lady and I have remedied the trouble.”
“Of course there’s no use in my asking if there’s any particular reason for your being in this neighborhood, Pachuca?”
“There is always a reason for my being where I am,” was the suave reply. “This time it does not concern you.”
“That’s good. No revolutions up your sleeve, eh?”
Pachuca chuckled. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, amigo,” he said. “Would you take the advice of a friend, Marc Scott?”
“I might, if you’d guarantee he ain’t lying.”