Henderson was breaking stone when O’Connor got his first glimpse of him. He continued to swing his hammer listlessly, without looking up, when the door opened to let in the warden and his guests. But something in the ranger’s steady gaze drew his eyes. They were dull eyes, and sullen, but when he saw that Bucky was an American, the fire of intelligence flashed into them.
“May I speak to him?” asked O’Connor.
“It is against the rules, señor, but if you will be brief—” The colonel shrugged, and turned his back to them, in order not to see. It must be said for Gabilonda that his capacity for blinking what he did not think it judicious to see was enormous.
“You are David Henderson, are you not?” The ranger asked, in a low voice.
Surprise filtered into the dull eyes. “That was my name,” the man answered bitterly. “I have a number now.”
“I come from Webb Mackenzie to get you out of this,” the ranger said.
The man’s eyes were no longer dull now, but flaming with hatred. “Curse him, I’ll take nothing from his hands. For fifteen years he has let me rot in hell without lifting a hand for me.”
“He thought you dead. It can all be explained. It was only last week that the mystery of your disappearance was solved.”
“Then why didn’t he come himself? It was to save his little girl I got myself into this place. If I had been in his shoes I would have come if I’d had to crawl on my hands and knees.”
“He doesn’t know yet you are here. I wrote him simply that I knew where you were, and then I came at once.” Bucky glanced round warily at the fat colonel gazing placidly out of the barred window. “I mean to rescue you, and I knew if he were here his impulsiveness would ruin everything.”