"Me?" says Jonesey. "Why—I—some might have called me that."
"Great guns!" I gasps. "See here, Jonesey; you don't mean to say you've got the ring too?"
"The ring?" says he, tryin' to look blank. But at the same time I notice his hand go up to his shirt front sort of jerky.
"The ring of the Señorita Donna Mario," cuts in Don Pedro eager.
That don't get any hysterical motions out of him, though. He just stands there, lookin' from one to the other of us slow and dazed, as if something was tricklin' down into his brain. Once or twice he rubs a dingy hand over his bald head. It seemed to help.
"Donna Mario, Donna Mario," he repeats, half under his breath.
"Yes," says I. "And isn't that something like the ring you're coverin' up there under your shirt bosom? Let's see."
Without a word he unbuttons his collar, slips a looped string over his head, and holds out a ring. It's a big ruby set in pale gold.
"That is the ring of Donna Mario," says Don Pedro.
"Hal-lup," says I. "Jonesey, do you mean to say you're the same one who sailed with Dynamite Johnny, risked your neck to go poking around Havana, made love to the Governor General's niece, trussed him up like a roasting turkey when he interfered, and escaped with her in the palace coach through whole rafts of soldiers who'd have been made rich for life if they'd shot you on sight? You!"