“What did he look like?” asked Dick, directing his question toward the rower. “Well, from what I saw he was kind of slim and had dark eyes and hair, and a little pointed mustache.” “That description fits Porfias del Norte right well,” said Buckhart; “but it can’t be the greaser, for he’s up yonder on the mountain.” “No, it can’t be Del Norte,” agreed Dick. “We will find out very soon who it was, for yonder lies the _Sachem_.” As they swung in at the side of the yacht a sailor appeared and watched them come aboard. Dick questioned the sailor, and both boys were greatly astonished when they were told that the man who had just preceded them was none other than Porfias del Norte. “He had a bad fall on the mountain, sir,” said the sailor. “His clothes were torn, and he was cut and bruised. Said he slipped and fell over a steep ledge.” “Hey there!” called the boy from the boat. “When do I get that fifty cents? You fellers clean forgot me.” “I will pay him, Dick,” said Buckhart. Brad paused to pay the boy, but Dick turned at once toward the main saloon of the magnificent yacht. The singular and unexpected return of Del Norte had filled the boy with wonderment and speculation. The _Sachem_ was large enough to have a number of staterooms, and Dick turned at once toward the one occupied by Frank and himself. To his surprise through the keyhole of the door to this room he saw a gleam of light. “What’s this?” he exclaimed, in a low tone. “There’s a light in that room!” Softly stepping to the door, he stooped and peered through the keyhole. Some one was in the room, for he saw the person moving, but the room was very small, and the person was so near the door that Dick could not tell who it was. Immediately the boy seized the knob of the door and flung it open. Porfias del Norte himself, still wearing his torn clothing, was standing beside the berths, on the upper one of which sat a small iron box. This box had been opened, and in the hands of Del Norte was an outspread paper that looked like a map. Instantly Dick realized that the Mexican was rifling Frank’s private papers. In some manner Del Norte had opened the iron box, and now he was going through the papers to find the valuable ones he desired. The opening of the door caused the rascal to wheel instantly, uttering a suppressed exclamation. “What are you doing?” cried Dick, lifting a hand and pointing an accusing finger at the Mexican. For a moment the rascal was taken aback. Then he swiftly folded the paper and thrust it into his trousers pocket. “I beg your pardon, young señor,” smiled Del Norte, seemingly to recover his ease. “You startled me a trifle when you opened the door so suddenly.” “What are you doing, you scoundrel?” cried the boy. “Give up that paper!” “What paper?” asked the man, with pretended innocence. “The one you thrust into your pocket.”