They looked at one another in dismay.
“It must have been Mort Beecher,” Tom asserted confidently; then he turned to the derelict again. “Did he ever talk about being in Mexico?”
“Mexico—Mexico? I ain’t sure.”
“Did he ever mention a—a Golden Sun?” Bill, rolling and retaining a fresh cigarette just out of reach of the eager fingers.
“Sun? I—I don’t just—seems as if maybe he did, but——”
“It’s no use,” Bill said, quite gruffly, tossing the rolled paper contemptuously to the other who snatched it greedily. “We’ll have to wait for the old slow-poke alcalde. We’ll go back to the boat—I won’t spend a night in this sordid place!”
“Wait,” pleaded Tom, “I feel, some way, as if this man knows it, but he has got into such a state that he doesn’t make even an effort.”
“Look, mister,” said Cliff. “Try to think back. Did he stay here a long time? Did he talk to you?”
“I guess it was quite awhile, but I don’t know how long—I forget. He talked some, I guess.”
“What about—did he talk of his past?”