"Well," Lafe resumed--and I could see he was impressed--"well, sir, there's a guy at the ranch who can't speak English very good. We want somebody to tell him what the ol' man wants--ol' Horne of the Anvil. If you'll come down--" "I shall be very pleased." "Good," Johnson said in surprise. "We've got some right good liquor there and I thought--" The prospector laughed and looked at him cunningly. He would not mount behind either of us, being suspicious even of the offer, but trudged between, occasionally breaking into rambling discourses on natural history and associated topics--such as the edible qualities of grasshoppers, if properly stewed. It took us five hours to reach the ranch, and our guest was then so tired that he readily acceded to the suggestion that we eat and sleep before meeting the gentleman who spoke only French. Next morning, by dint of impressing on him the importance of the transaction and the high social status of the man he was to converse with, Lafe persuaded the prospector to bathe and don new clothes. They belonged to Horne and sagged all over his emaciated body, but he seemed rather proud of his appearance. Also, once started, he consented to let Dave, the cook, cut his hair and beard. At noon I was on the porch when a buckboard drove up, and a man and a woman got out. The woman was heavily veiled. Both were hurried inside by Mrs. Horne and I was sent down to the bunkhouse to carry word to Lafe and his captive. "That feller who just come in is a specialist," Lafe whispered on the way to the house. "They come off the Burro express this morning." The prospector was ushered into Horne's office, a bare room facing the corrals. There a well-groomed man of affable manners met us and courteously addressed him in French. They talked for a moment. The prospector never let his gaze wander from the other's face. "I say," he broke out abruptly in English, "isn't your name Toole?" "It is." "Harvard '87?" "Yes, sir." "That was my class." The other affected to search his memory. He wrinkled his brow and pursed up his mouth. "I remember you now perfectly. You're Vining." They shook hands. Then Vining drew back as though assailed by a suspicion, and his glance flickered from one to the other of us like that of an animal at bay. "They said you couldn't speak--what does this mean, anyway? You're trying--" "Steady, old man," said the doctor. The door to the sitting-room off the office opened, and Mrs. Vining came in. She went straight to the prospector, with her hands out pleadingly. Had she wavered, heaven knows what might not have happened. "Harry!" she said. What transpired after that I cannot say. Lafe and I found ourselves outside, and there the doctor joined us. Not long after sunrise, Johnson himself drove a light, covered wagon in front of the porch steps, with me on the seat beside him. Our orders were to catch the Burro express with our guests.