It was rumored that he was in the employ of the American Government; that he had been disappointed in a love affair; that he had a wife and son living somewhere in the States; that for very good reasons he could not return to the States; that he was a dangerous man, well paid by the Mexican Government to handle political matters that would not bear public inspection.  These rumors came to him from time to time, and because he paid no attention to them they were accepted as facts.

About an hour after he had left Donovan’s office, Waring entered the Plaza Hotel, nodded to the clerk, and passed on down the hallway.  He knocked at a door, and was answered by the appearance of a stout, smooth-shaven man in shirt-sleeves.  They chatted for a minute or two.  Waring stepped into the room.  Presently he reappeared, smiling.

After dinner he strolled out and down the street.  At a corner he edged through the crowd, and was striding on when some one touched his arm.  He turned to confront the Mexican youth, Ramon.  Waring gestured to Ramon to follow, and they passed on down the street until near the edge of the town.  In the shadow of an adobe, Waring stopped.

Ramon glanced up and down the street.  “The police—­they have asked me where is my Uncle Jose.  I have told them that I do not know.  The police they asked me that.”

“Well?”

“But it is not that why I come.  They told me to go to my home.  It was when I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone.  He spoke your name and the name of Senor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine.  I heard only your name and his, but I was afraid.  You will not tell them that I was with my Uncle Jose?”

“No.  And thanks, Ramon.  I think I know what they were talking about.  Go back home, pronto.  If you were to be seen with me—­”

“The senor is gracious.  He has given me my life.  I have nothing to give—­but this.”  And Ramon drew the little silver crucifix from his shirt and pressed it in Waring’s hand.

“Oh, here, muchacho—­”

But Ramon was already hastening down a side street.  Waring smiled and shook his head.  For a moment he stood looking at the little crucifix shining on the palm of his hand.  He slipped it into his pocket and strode back up the street.  For an hour or more he walked about, listening casually to this or that bit of conversation.  Occasionally he heard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery.  Donovan’s name, Waring’s own name, Vaca’s, and even Ramon’s were mentioned.  It seemed strange to him that news should breed so fast.  Few knew that he had returned.  Possibly Donovan had spread the report that the bandits had made their escape with the money.  That would mean that Waring had been outwitted.  And Donovan would like nothing better than to injure Waring’s reputation.

Finding himself opposite the hotel, Waring glanced about and strode in.  As he entered the hallway leading to his room three men rose from the leather chairs near the lobby window and followed him.  Waring’s door closed.  He undressed and went to bed.  He had been asleep but a few minutes when some one rapped on the door.  He asked who it was.  He was told to open in the name of the city of Sonora.  He rose and dressed quickly.