A tall man with a white moustache alighted, and assisted to the ground a lady who was dressed and veiled in unrelieved black.

The two hastened inside, and were met by Thacker with his best diplomatic bow.  By his desk stood a slender young man with clear-cut, sun-browned features and smoothly brushed black hair.

Senora Urique threw back her black veil with a quick gesture.  She was past middle age, and her hair was beginning to silver, but her full, proud figure and clear olive skin retained traces of the beauty peculiar to the Basque province.  But, once you had seen her eyes, and comprehended the great sadness that was revealed in their deep shadows and hopeless expression, you saw that the woman lived only in some memory.

She bent upon the young man a long look of the most agonized questioning.  Then her great black eyes turned, and her gaze rested upon his left hand.  And then with a sob, not loud, but seeming to shake the room, she cried “Hijo mio!” and caught the Llano Kid to her heart.

A month afterward the Kid came to the consulate in response to a message sent by Thacker.

He looked the young Spanish caballero.  His clothes were imported, and the wiles of the jewellers had not been spent upon him in vain.  A more than respectable diamond shone on his finger as he rolled a shuck cigarette.

“What’s doing?” asked Thacker.

“Nothing much,” said the Kid calmly.  “I eat my first iguana steak to-day.  They’re them big lizards, you sabe?  I reckon, though, that frijoles and side bacon would do me about as well.  Do you care for iguanas, Thacker?”

“No, nor for some other kinds of reptiles,” said Thacker.

It was three in the afternoon, and in another hour he would be in his state of beatitude.

“It’s time you were making good, sonny,” he went on, with an ugly look on his reddened face.  “You’re not playing up to me square.  You’ve been the prodigal son for four weeks now, and you could have had veal for every meal on a gold dish if you’d wanted it.  Now, Mr. Kid, do you think it’s right to leave me out so long on a husk diet?  What’s the trouble?  Don’t you get your filial eyes on anything that looks like cash in the Casa Blanca?  Don’t tell me you don’t.  Everybody knows where old Urique keeps his stuff.  It’s U.S. currency, too; he don’t accept anything else.  What’s doing?  Don’t say ‘nothing’ this time.”

“Why, sure,” said the Kid, admiring his diamond, “there’s plenty of money up there.  I’m no judge of collateral in bunches, but I will undertake for to say that I’ve seen the rise of $50,000 at a time in that tin grub box that my adopted father calls his safe.  And he lets me carry the key sometimes just to show me that he knows I’m the real little Francisco that strayed from the herd a long time ago.”