“Is it truly you, Senor Torres?” The Jefe crossed himself solemnly ere he shook hands.
The solid flesh, and, even more so, the dirt and grit of the other’s hand, convinced the Jefe of reality and substance.
Whereupon the Jefe became wrathful.
“And here I’ve been looking upon you as dead!” he exclaimed. “That Caroo dog of a José Mancheno! He came back and reported you dead——dead and buried until the Day of Judgment in the heart of the Maya Mountain.”
“He is a fool, and I am possibly the richest man in Panama,” Torres replied grandiosely. “At least, like the ancient and heroic conquistadores, I have braved all dangers and penetrated to the treasure. I have seen it. Nay——”
Torres’ hand had been sunk into his trousers’ pocket to bring forth the filched gems of the Lady Who Dreams; but he withdrew the hand empty. Too many curious eyes of the street were already centered upon him and the draggled figure he cut.
“I have much to say to you,” he told the Jefe, “that cannot well be said now. I have knocked on the doors of the dead and worn the shrouds of corpses. And I have consorted with men four centuries dead but who were not dust, and I have beheld them drown in the second death. I have gone through mountains, as well as over them, and broken bread with lost souls, and gazed into the Mirror of the World. All of which I shall tell you, my best friend, and the honorable Judge, in due time, for I shall make you rich along with me.”
“Have you looked upon the pulque when it was sour?” the Jefe quipped incredulously.
“I have not had drink stronger than water since I last departed from San Antonio,” was the reply. “And I shall go now to my house and drink a long long drink, and after that I shall bathe the filth from me, and put on garments whole and decent.”
Not immediately, as he proceeded, did Torres gain his house. A ragged urchin exclaimed out at sight of him, ran up to him, and handed him an envelope that he knew familiarly to be from the local government wireless, and that he was certain had been sent by Regan.