"I see," said Billy thoughtfully. "And that's where I shall come in."
"Precisely. Between us we ought to be able to scent any trouble that's hanging around. I've got my mark pretty plainly on one of the beauties already."
"I wish we knew who you were," remarked Billy, after pondering over the situation for a moment. "It would simplify matters so—wouldn't it? It must be something to do with San Luca. Let's get out a map and have a squint at the hole."
"Yes, Billy," I said, "and hunt up a place called Culebra. I'm the 'Satyr of Culebra,' according to Mercia, and I should like to know exactly where my happy home is."
Billy searched through the bookshelves, and lugged out a big atlas and Gazetteer. "Here we are!" he said, turning up the index. "Culebra 1035, 85-38. Great Scott! It's in Costa Rica."
"That doesn't help us much," I observed.
"The funny thing is," said Billy, "that I'm sure I've heard the phrase somewhere—'the Satyr of Culebra.'"
"Perhaps they breed them there," I suggested. "It sounds a likely place."
"And here's San Luca," he went on, turning back to a map of South America. "Let's see what they say about it. 'An inland republic, bordered by Brazil and the Argentine. Population, 300,000, including Indians—composed of a few negroes, and whites of Spanish and mixed descent.'"
"That's M. Guarez all right," I commented.