He walked away without another word. When he had gone ten steps he turned and called to Bell:
“You keep well out of the way when the goods are delivered, so there won’t be any hitch in the business.”
“All right,” answered Bell, “I’ll attend to my end of the line.”
This talk was scarcely clear in its meaning to me; but as it did not concern me, I did not let it weigh upon my mind. But the singularity of the other man’s appearance lingered with me for a while; and as we walked toward Bell’s house I remarked to him:
“Your customer seems to be a surly kind of fellow—not one that you’d like to be snowed in with in a camp on a hunting trip.”
“He is that,” assented Bell, heartily. “He reminds me of a rattlesnake that’s been poisoned by the bite of a tarantula.”
“He doesn’t look like a citizen of Saltillo,” I went on.
“No,” said Bell, “he lives in Sacramento. He’s down here on a little business trip. His name is George Ringo, and he’s been my best friend—in fact the only friend I ever had—for twenty years.”
I was too surprised to make any further comment.
Bell lived in a comfortable, plain, square, two-story white house on the edge of the little town. I waited in the parlor—a room depressingly genteel—furnished with red plush, straw matting, looped-up lace curtains, and a glass case large enough to contain a mummy, full of mineral specimens.