Toward the close of a cool, pleasant day in September, 18—, the residents of the village of Readestown were startled by seeing a horseman come dashing furiously into the town.
He was a middle-aged man, with dark, swarthy features, piercing black eyes, a black mustache and dark hair. His slender figure was clad in the costume of a native Mexican, and he rode like an expert.
The man bestrode a fine, swift bay mare, and as he went thundering through the main street enveloped in a cloud of dust at the top of the mare’s speed, he attracted considerable attention.
The horse finally paused before a palatial mansion, out of the gate of which a beautiful young woman was coming, and the Mexican politely raised his sombrero and asked in good English:
“Senora, can you direct me to the home of Frank Reade, Jr.?”
“This house is his residence,” replied the lady, curiously eyeing the man.
“Ah! Thank you! Do you know if he is in?”
“He has gone away.”
“Gone!” gasped the man in startled tones.
“Half an hour ago.”