Greg was delighted. It was true this might be good acting, but the young man's implied scorn of de Socotra had all the effect of a violent denunciation. Greg could conceive of no reason why a follower of de Socotra's should denounce him to a stranger.
Greg went further. "At the desk just now I heard you ask for Señor Antonio Bareda."
The young man's face seemed to open as with an inner light. He turned eagerly to Greg. "My master and my friend!" he cried impulsively. "The best of men! Do you know him too?"
Greg's heart bled for this generous youth. He shook his head.
"I thought if you are stopping here you might have met him," the other went on. "Perhaps you have seen him about the hotel, a little, plump, smooth-shaven old gentleman, with an old-fashioned courteous air, and a beaming glance that seems to shed kindness all around him. You wouldn't think to see him that he was a fighter, and one of the bravest!"
Greg could no longer doubt his man. "Look here," he said frankly. "I knew we should hit it off, when I first laid eyes on you. My name's Gregory Parr. What's yours?"
"Mario Estuban," was the surprising reply.
Greg's eyes goggled at him. "Good God!" he ejaculated.
"What's the matter?" demanded the other frowning. "What do you know about me?"
"Nothing," said Greg, "only I cabled you yesterday."