Mr. Ezekiel's face and manner expressed a mingling of grateful curiosity and some scorn at the discovery. “Wa'al,” he said, looking around as if to take the entire Posada into his confidence, “way up in North Liberty, where I kem from, he was allus known as Dick Demorest, and didn't tack any forrin titles to his name. Et wouldn't hev gone down there, I reckon, 'mongst free-born Merikin citizens, no mor'n aliases would in court--and I kinder guess for the same reason. But folks get peart and sassy when they're way from hum, and put on ez many airs as a buck nigger. And so he calls hisself Don Ricardo here, does he?” “The Senor knows Don Ricardo?” said Mateo politely. “Ef you mean me--wa'al, yes--I should say so. He was a partiklar friend of a man I've known since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.” Ezekiel had actually never seen Demorest but once in his life. He would have scorned to lie, but strict accuracy was not essential with an ignorant foreign audience. He took up his carpet-bag. “I reckon I kin find his house, ef it's anyway handy.” But the Senor Mateo was again politely troubled. The house of Don Ricardo was of a truth not more than a mile distant. It was even possible that the Senor had observed it above a wall and vineyard as he came into the pueblo. But it was late--it was also dark, as the Senor would himself perceive--and there was still to-morrow. To-morrow--ah, it was always there! Meanwhile there were beds of a miraculous quality at the Posada, and a supper such as a caballero might order in his own house. Health, discretion, solicitude for oneself--all pointed clearly to to-morrow. What part of this speech Ezekiel understood affected him only as an innkeeper's bid for custom, and as such to be steadily exposed and disposed of. With the remark that he guessed Dick Demorest's was “a good enough hotel for HIM,” and that he'd better be “getting along there,” he walked down the steps, carpet-bag in hand, and coolly departed, leaving Mateo pained, but smiling, on the doorstep. “An animal with a pig's head--without doubt,” said Mateo, sententiously. “Clearly a brigand with the liver of a chicken,” responded his wife.