“But he is very kind,” said the native. “When my brother fell and broke his arm on the mountain, this gentleman found him, took care of him, and brought him in on muleback.”
“Lives up there somewhere, doesn’t he, Mr. Raimonda?” asked the big man.
“In the quinta of a deserted plantation,” replied the Caracuñan.
“Wot’s he do?” asked the Englishman.
“Ah, that one does not know, unless Senor Sherwen can tell us.”
“Not I,” said the elderly man. “Some sort of scientific investigation, according to the guess of the men at the club.”
“You never can tell down here,” observed the Englishman darkly. “Might be a blind, you know. Calls himself Perkins. Dare say it isn’t his name at all.”
“Daughter,” said Mr. Thatcher Brewster at this juncture, in a patient and plaintive voice, “for the fifth and last time, I implore you to pass me the butter, or that which purports to be butter, in the dish at your elbow.”
“Oh, poor dad! Forgive me! But I was overhearing some news of an—an acquaintance.”
“Do you know any of the gentlemen upon whose conversation you are eavesdropping?”