Mr. Lucian Morrow did not reply. He stood in a sort of wonder. But Zindorf, his face like iron, addressed my father:
“Where did you get these papers, Pendleton?” he said.
“I got them from Ordez,” replied my father.
“When did you see Ordez?”
“I saw him to-day,” replied my father.
Zindorf did not move, but his big jaw worked and a faint spray of moisture came out on his face. Then, finally, with no change or quaver in his voice, he put his query.
“Where is Ordez?”
“Where?” echoed my father, and he rose. “Why, Zindorf, he is on his way here.” And he extended his arm toward the open window. The big man lifted his head and looked out at the men and horses now clearly visible on the distant road.
“Who are these people,” he said, “and why do they come?” He spoke as though he addressed some present but invisible authority.
My father answered him