"Ah!"
He quickly turned again in the direction of the noisy water-fowl. Their rollicking gambols sounded joyously on the brooding atmosphere of the place. The wintry chill in the air was fast ousting the balmy breath of spring. It was a warning of the lateness of the hour.
"Now listen to me," he went on presently, turning again from the contemplation of his weird surroundings. "I lost all that was left to me from the wreck of my little ranch this afternoon—no, not to Lablache," as the girl was about to pronounce the hated name, "but," with a wintry smile, "to another friend of yours, Pedro Mancha. I also discovered, this afternoon, the source of Lablache's phenomenal—luck. He has systematically robbed both your uncle and myself—" He broke off with a bitter laugh.
"My God!"
The girl had sprung to her feet in her agitation. And a rage indescribable flamed into her face. The fury there expressed appalled him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to abate. What terrible depths had he delved into? The hidden fires of a passionate nature are more easily kept under than checked in their blasting career when once the restraining will power is removed. For an instant it seemed that she must choke. Then she hurled her feelings into one brief, hissing sentence.
"Lablache—I hate him!"
And the man realized that he must continue his story.
"Yes, we lost our money not fairly, but by—cheating. I am ruined, and your uncle—" Bill shrugged.
"My uncle—God help him!"
"I do not know the full extent of his losses, Jacky—except that they have probably trebled mine."