"No. And thanks, Ramon. I think I know what they were talking about. Go back home, pronto. If you were to be seen with me—"
"The señor is gracious. He has given me my life. I have nothing to give—but this." And Ramon drew the little silver crucifix from his shirt and pressed it in Waring's hand.
"Oh, here, muchacho—"
But Ramon was already hastening down a side street. Waring smiled and shook his head. For a moment he stood looking at the little crucifix shining on the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket and strode back up the street. For an hour or more he walked about, listening casually to this or that bit of conversation. Occasionally he heard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, Waring's own name, Vaca's, and even Ramon's were mentioned. It seemed strange to him that news should breed so fast. Few knew that he had returned. Possibly Donovan had spread the report that the bandits had made their escape with the money. That would mean that Waring had been outwitted. And Donovan would like nothing better than to injure Waring's reputation.
Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced about and strode in. As he entered the hallway leading to his room three men rose from the leather chairs near the lobby window and followed him. Waring's door closed. He undressed and went to bed. He had been asleep but a few minutes when some one rapped on the door. He asked who it was. He was told to open in the name of the city of Sonora. He rose and dressed quickly.
When he opened the door two Sonora policemen told him to put up his hands. Donovan stood back of them, chewing a cigar. One of the policemen took Waring's gun. The other searched the room. Evidently he did not find what he sought.
"When you get through," said Waring, eyeing Donovan grimly, "you might tell me what you're after."
"I'm after that thousand," said Donovan.
"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Just call in Stanley, of the bank. His room is opposite."
Donovan hesitated. "Stanley's got nothing to do with this."