"Gold?"
"Mex.," came the reply, which cut the offer in half and which Torres knew was a lie. "Of course, Mex., only Mex., all our transactions are in Mex."
Despite his elation at so large a price for so small a gem, Torres play-acted impatience as he reached to take back the gem. But the old man jerkgd his hand away, loath to let go of the bargain it contained.
"We are old' friends," he cackled shrilly. "I first saw you, when, a boy, you came to San Antonio from Boca del Toros. And, as between old friends, we will say the sum is gold."
And Torres caught a sure but vague glimpse of the enormousness, as well as genuineness, of the Queen's treasure which at some remote time the Lost Souls had ravished from its hiding place in the Maya Mountain.
"Very good," said Torres, with a quick, cavalier action recovering the stone. "It belongs to a friend of mine. He wanted to borrow money from me on it. I can now lend him up to five hundred gold on it, thanks to your information. And I shall be grateful to buy for you, the next time we meet in the pulqueria, a drink yes, as many drinks as you can care to carry of the thin, red, tonic wine."
And as Torres passed out of the shop, not in any way attempting to hide the scorn and contempt he felt for the fool he had made of the jeweler, he knew elation in that Fernandez, the Spanish fox, must have cut his estimate of the gem's value fully in half when he uttered it.
In the meanwhile, descending the Gualaca River by canoe, Leoncia, the Queen, and the two Morgans, had made better time than Torres to the coast. But ere their arrival and briefly pending it, a matter of moment that was not appreciated at the time, had occurred at the Solano hacienda. Climbing the winding pathway to the hacienda, accompanied by a decrepit old crone whose black shawl over head and shoulders could not quite hide the lean and withered face of blasted volcanic fire, came as strange a caller as the hacienda had ever received.
He was a Chinaman, middle-aged and fat, whose moonlace beamed the beneficent good nature that seems usual with fat persons. By name, Yi Poon, meaning "the Cream of the Custard Apple," his manners were as softly and richly oily as his name. To the old crone, who tottered beside him and was half — supported by him, he was the quintessence of gentleness and consideration. When she faltered from sheer physical weakness and would have fallen, he paused and gave her chance to gain strength and breath. Thrice, at such times, on the climb to the hacienda, he fed her a spoonful of French brandy from a screw-cap pocket flask.
Seating the old woman in a selected, shady corner of the piazza, Yi Poon boldly knocked for admittance at the front door. To him, and in his business, back-stairs was the accustomed way; but his business and his wdt had taught him the times when front entrances were imperative.