“It’s a pretty awful end,” Hi said, “to die out here in the wilderness, all those thousands of miles from home.”
“Damned sight better end than being poisoned by doctors in a frowsy hospital.”
“I wish we could make out enough bits of letters to find out where his people are,” Hi said.
“There aren’t any letters, I told you.”
“There are bits of letters, because I saw them. Do you know, there is one way we could find out about him?”
“How?” the man asked, with a sudden close attention.
“From people in Santa Barbara. He had a letter addressed to him in the care of a French firm in Santa Barbara. I expect that they were his agents. There can’t be more than two or three French houses in Santa Barbara. I could enquire at them all, and through them we could easily find out where he came from.”
“Agents? A French firm?” the man said. “You mean Chardenal? It is a general stores in Santa Barb’. He used to get his stores there. They weren’t his agents: he was a customer there. As a matter of fact, I sent an Indio in with a chit to them when Wigmore died to cancel his last order. They know that he is dead.”
“Wouldn’t they know where he came from?”
“He was a very dark horse, Wigmore. He never told that to me, in all the months we were together. I don’t see why he should have told his grocers.”