So Nicolas passed on toward the tents without having observed Reade.

“I won’t get back too soon,” Tom decided.  “If we are watched at all it wouldn’t do to have me appear too much interested in the peon’s doings.”

Now that his mind was somewhat easier, Tom strolled on once more.  His roundabout path took him along among the rocks that littered the ground over the principal tunnels of El Sombrero.  Hundreds of feet beneath him now toiled some of the peons who lived in the village of huts yonder.

Presently Reade increased his speed considerably, deciding that now it would be safe to return directly to camp.  Suddenly he stopped short, head up, his gaze directed at the tops of three or four rocks.  Some human being had just dodged out of sight at that point.

Tom felt a swift though brief chill.  Something had made him suspect that the prowler might be Gato, or one of the latter’s companions.

Instead of running away Tom made for the place of hiding in short leaps.

“Hold on there a minute, my friend,” Tom called in Spanish.  “I think it may be worth my while to look you over.”

Just as Reade was ready to bound over the rocks a figure rose as though to meet him.  A light leap landed Reade on top of the stranger, who was borne to earth.

“Mercy senor!” begged the other.  “Do not be rough with me.  I am not strong enough to stand it.”

The man spoke Spanish and was well past middle age, of a very spare figure, and his face was very thin, although there was a deep flush on his cheeks.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Tom in Spanish.  He touched the stranger’s cheeks, which were hot with fever.

Then Tom slid off his poor captive and squatted beside him.  Reaching for the man’s left wrist and resting two fingers on his pulse, Tom added, gently: 

“Tell me all about it, senor.”

“There is not much to tell,” panted the stranger, weakly, for Tom’s landing on him had jarred him severely.  “I am sick, as you can see.”

“Oh, that isn’t much,” said Tom, blithely.  “With decent care you will soon he well.  It is plain that you are a gentleman—­no peon.  Yonder, some distance, is a house where I think you are very likely to be well taken care of.  Don Luis Montez—­”

Despite the hectic flush in the cheeks, the stranger’s face paled visibly.  Tom, always observant, noted this.

“Oh, I see,” Reade went on, calmly.  “You do not like Don Luis Montez, or you do not care about going to his house.”

The stranger gazed up wistfully at the young engineer’s kindly face.

“Senor,” he asked, “you would not betray me?”

“You mean to Don Luis?”

A weak nod was the answer.

“Rest easy on that score, my friend,” Tom begged, dryly.  “Don Luis and I are not on the best of terms.  I do not like him very well myself.”