The man drooped his hat upon this discovery, and leaned forward for a better view of Geoffrey.
“Go on, if you please,” the young man said, briefly.
“Well, as I said, I remember him; I don’t often forget anybody that I’ve ever had any dealings with,” Mr. Brown resumed. “He was a generous fellow, too; had plenty of money, and scattered it right and left like a prince. It was a curious conceit, though, his having his letters sent just to the box—some of ’em; they didn’t all come that way.”
“No?” cried Geoffrey, eagerly. “To whom were they directed? What was his name?”
“Well, now,” said the old man, again laying down his hat, and scratching his head meditatively. “I shouldn’t wonder if you’d got me this time. I’m pretty good at spotting a face, but when it comes to names and figures—unless somebody happens to be owing me”—he interposed, with a sly smile, “I don’t amount to much. ’Pears to me, though, his first name was William—William—hum! I don’t know—William something; and there was a general or captain—I can’t remember which—tacked on to it besides.”
“Was his last name Dale, do you think?” Geoffrey asked.
Mr. Brown shook his head doubtfully.
“I couldn’t swear ’twas, or ’twasn’t,” he said. “Somehow, that don’t strike me as sounding just natural—I’ve a notion there was more to it.”
“I am very anxious to know it, and would be willing to give a great deal to be sure of it. Could you find out in any way what it was?” the young man inquired, anxiously.
“I don’t believe there’s a single soul in Santa Fe to-day who was here as long ago as that, except my wife here. Maria, do you remember that handsome gentleman who used to have Lock Box 43?” the old man asked, turning to his wife.