He smiled, trying, perhaps, to show himself at his ease.  He was rapidly recovering, not only from the fright, but from the effects of the blow on the head which had caused the cut, and rendered him unconscious for a moment.

“It sure was a narrow squeak,” declared Hank again.  “I don’t want any closer call.  I couldn’t move to save myself, I was so dumbfounded, and the carriage would have toppled down in another, second if you boys hadn’t come along and hauled it back.”

“We saw you pass Mr. Baker’s house,” explained Blake, “and we came after you on the motor cycle.  Tried to get ahead of you, but the old machine laid down on us.”

“But we got here in time,” added Joe.

“You did indeed!  I can not thank you enough,” put in the Spaniard, as Joe and Blake both classed him.  “You have saved my life, and some day I hope not only to repay the favor, but to show how grateful I am in other ways.  I am a stranger in this part of your fine country, but I expect to be better acquainted soon.  But where is our horse?” he asked quickly, not seeming to understand what had happened.  “How are we to continue our journey?” and he looked at his driver.

“We’re at the end of it now, in more ways than one,” Hank answered, with a smile.  “You’re just where you wanted to go, though not in the style I calculated on taking you.”

“But I do not comprehend, sir,” said the Spaniard, in rather puzzled accents.  “I have engaged you to take me to a certain place.  There is an accident.  We go through a fence with a resounding crash—­Ah!  I can hear that smash yet!” and he put his hands to his ears in a somewhat dramatic manner.

“Then everything is black.  Our horse disappears, and—­”

“He’s down there, if you want to know where he disappeared to,” broke in Hank, practically.

“It is no matter—­if he is gone,” went on the Spaniard.  “But I do not comprehend—­assimilate—­no, comprehend—­that is it.  I do not comprehend what you mean when you say we are at our journey’s end.”

“I’ll tell you,” exclaimed Hank, as he glanced at Joe and Blake in a manner that caused them to wonder.  “You said you wanted to find—­”

“Pardon me—­my card, gentlemen!” and the stranger extended a rectangle of white on which was engraved the name Vigues Alcando.

Blake took it, and, as he did so, from the pocket whence the Spaniard had extracted the card, there fell a letter.  Joe picked it up, but, to his surprise it was addressed to himself and Blake jointly, and, in the upper left hand corner was the imprint of the Film Theatrical Company.

“Why—­why,” began Joe.  “This is for us!  Look, Blake!”

“For you!  That letter for you?” cried Mr. Alcando.  “Are you the moving picture boys?”

“That’s what they call us,” answered Joe.  “This is Blake Stewart, and I’m his chum, Joe Duncan.”

“Is it possible—­is it possible!” cried Mr. Alcando.  “And you have saved my life!  Why—­I—­I—­er—­I—­Oh!  To think of this happening so!  You are—­you are—!” He put his hands to his head and seemed to sway.