An intimate friend and old companion of his—­one Enriquez Saltillo—­had diverged from a mountain trip especially to call upon him.  Enriquez was a scion of one of the oldest Spanish-California families, and in addition to his friendship for the editor it pleased him also to affect an intense admiration of American ways and habits, and even to combine the current California slang with his native precision of speech—­and a certain ironical levity still more his own.

It seemed, therefore, quite natural to Mr. Grey to find him seated with his feet on the editorial desk, his hat cocked on the back of his head, reading the “Clarion” exchanges.  But he was up in a moment, and had embraced Grey with characteristic effusion.

“I find myself, my leetle brother, but an hour ago two leagues from this spot!  I say to myself, ’Hola!  It is the home of Don Pancho—­my friend!  I shall find him composing the magnificent editorial leader, collecting the subscription of the big pumpkin and the great gooseberry, or gouging out the eye of the rival editor, at which I shall assist!’ I hesitate no longer; I fly on the instant, and I am here.”

Grey was delighted.  Saltillo knew the Spanish population thoroughly—­his own superior race and their Mexican and Indian allies.  If any one could solve the mystery of the Ramierez fonda, and discover Richards’s unknown assailant, it was he!  But Grey contented himself, at first, with a few brief inquiries concerning the beautiful Cota and her anonymous association with the Ramierez.  Enriquez was as briefly communicative.

“Of your suspicions, my leetle brother, you are right—­on the half!  That leetle angel of a Cota is, without doubt, the daughter of the adorable Senora Ramierez, but not of the admirable senor—­her husband.  Ah! what would you?  We are a simple, patriarchal race; thees Ramierez, he was the Mexican tenant of the old Spanish landlord—­such as my father—­and we are ever the fathers of the poor, and sometimes of their children.  It is possible, therefore, that the exquisite Cota resemble the Spanish landlord.  Ah! stop—­remain tranquil!  I remember,” he went on, suddenly striking his forehead with a dramatic gesture, “the old owner of thees ranch was my cousin Tiburcio.  Of a consequence, my friend, thees angel is my second cousin!  Behold!  I shall call there on the instant.  I shall embrace my long-lost relation.  I shall introduce my best friend, Don Pancho, who lofe her.  I shall say, ‘Bless you, my children,’ and it is feenish!  I go!  I am gone even now!”

He started up and clapped on his hat, but Grey caught him by the arm.

“For Heaven’s sake, Enriquez, be serious for once,” he said, forcing him back into the chair.  “And don’t speak so loud.  The foreman in the other room is an enthusiastic admirer of the girl.  In fact, it is on his account that I am making these inquiries.”