One of the Mexicans had left the rest, and was running toward the Corbett house.
"Gone to find whether we're on the porch with the family, up there," continued the young man, answering his own question.
"What's the matter with beating it while we've got a chanct?"
"I'm going to stay right here. You can go if you like, Steve?"
"Oh, well. I just suggested it." Davis helped himself to a chew of tobacco placidly.
"Fellow coming back from the house already," he presently added.
"Got the wrong address again. They'll be happening on the right one pretty soon."
"Soon as they're amply satisfied we ain't under the beds, or hid between the covers of some of them magazines. Blamed if they ain't lit a lamp."
Gordon gave a sudden exclamation of dismay. A Mexican had appeared at the back door of the cottage with a tin box in his hand.
"I'm the blamedest idiot out of an asylum," he cried bitterly. "All the proofs of my claim are in that box. You know I brought it back from Santa Fé with me."