“Well—­Uncle John?”

“I think he will live,” returned the little man, with an air of great satisfaction.  “Anyway, he’s alive and breathing now, and the doctors say there’s every reason to expect a rapid recovery.”

“Who is he?” they asked, crowding around him.

“A.  Jones.”

“A—­what?” This from Patsy, in a doubtful tone.

“Jones.  A. Jones.”

“Why, he must have given you an assumed name!”

“He didn’t give us any name.  As soon as he recovered consciousness he fell asleep, and I left him slumbering as peacefully as a baby.  But we went through his clothes, hoping to get a trace of his friends, so they could be notified.  His bathing suit is his own, not rented, and the name ‘A.  Jones’ is embroidered on tape and sewn to each piece.  Also the key to bathhouse number twenty-six was tied to his wrist.  The superintendent sent a man for his clothing and we examined that, too.  The letters ‘A.J.’ were stamped in gold on his pocketbook, and in his cardcase were a number of cards engraved:  ‘A.  Jones, Sangoa.’  But there were no letters, or any other papers.”

“Where is Sangoa?” inquired Beth.

“No one seems to know,” confessed Uncle John.  “There was plenty of money in his pocket-book and he has a valuable watch, but no other jewelry.  His clothes were made by a Los Angeles tailor, but when they called him up by telephone he knew nothing about his customer except that he had ordered his suit and paid for it in advance.  He called for it three days ago, and carried it away with him, so we have no clue to the boy’s dwelling place.”

“Isn’t that a little strange—­perhaps a little suspicious?” asked Mrs. Montrose.

“I think not, ma’am,” answered Mr. Merrick.  “We made these investigations at the time we still feared he would die, so as to communicate with any friends or relatives he might have.  But after he passed the crisis so well and fell asleep, the hospital people stopped worrying about him.  He seems like any ordinary, well-to-do young fellow, and a couple of days in the hospital ought to put him upon his feet again.”

“But Sangoa, Uncle; is that a town or a country?”

“Some out-of-the-way village, I suppose.  People are here from every crack and corner of America, you know.”

“It sounds a bit Spanish,” commented Arthur.  “Maybe he is from Mexico.”

“Maybe,” agreed Uncle John.  “Anyhow, Maud has saved his life, and if it’s worth anything to him he ought to be grateful.”

“Never mind that,” said Maud, flushing prettily with embarrassment as all eyes turned upon her, “I’m glad I noticed him in time; but now that he is all right he need never know who it was that rescued him.  And, for that matter, sir, Patsy Doyle and Mr. Weldon did as much for him as I. Perhaps they saved us both, while your promptness in getting him to the hospital was the main factor in saving his life.”