“It was, as a matter of fact, a very grave mistake to come here at all,” Holly told him with a courteous kind of severity.  “I fear you greatly underestimate the absolute necessity for extreme caution.  The mere fact that we have thus far elicited nothing more than a vague curiosity on the part of the government, does not excuse any imprudence now.  Rather, it intensifies the need for caution.  For myself—­”

“Oh, anybody is liable to run dry, out here on the desert, Holly.  If all the Secret Service men in the country, and I know of one or two that’s been nosing around, were to come and find me here, they couldn’t say I hadn’t a good, legitimate reason for coming.  I had to come.  I didn’t want to run on to any one from that inquest, and I had to see you.  I wanted to put you wise to the stand we’re taking on the Estan Medina affair.  We can’t help if that somebody bumped him off, but—­”

“You can fill your water bag at the well, since that is what you came for; and I should strongly advise you to terminate your visit as soon as it is consistent with your errand to do so.”

“Oh, don’t crab my meeting a pretty girl, Holly!  Introduce me, and I’ll take the water and go.  Be a sport!” Elfigo had picked up his five-gallon desert bag, but he was obviously waiting for Helen May to ride up to the house.

To Starr, crouched behind on a rock on the ridge that divided the Sommers place from the hidden arroyo where he had first seen trace of the automobile, Elfigo’s attitude of waiting for Helen May was too obvious to question.  A little, weakling offspring of Hope died then in his heart.  He had tried so hard to find some excuse for Helen May, and he had almost succeeded.  But his glasses were too strong; they identified Elfigo Apodaca too clearly for any doubt.  They were too merciless in showing Starr that beside Elfigo stood the man who had visited Helen May the day before.

Recognition of the man came with something of a shock to Starr.  He had heard of Holman Sommers often enough, though he had never seen him.  He had heard him described as a “highbrow” who wrote scientific articles, sometimes published in obscure magazines, read by few and understood by none.  A recluse student, he had been described to Starr, who knew Todd Sommers by sight, and who had tagged the family as being too American for any suspicion to point their way.

As often happens, Starr had formed a mental picture of Holman Sommers which was really the picture of a type made familiar to us mostly by our humorists.  He had imagined that Holman Sommers, being a “highbrow,” was a little, dried-up man with a bald head and weak eyes that made spectacles a part of his face; an insignificant little man well past middle life, with a gray beard, Starr saw him mentally.  He should have known better than to let his imagination paint him a portrait of any man, in those ticklish times.  But they were Americans, which was disarming in itself.  And the plump sister, who had talked for ten minutes with Starr when he called at the ranch one day to see if they had any stock they wanted to sell, had further helped to ward off any suspicion.