"Where are the mines that Mr. Gallito is interested in?" asked Hanson,
determined to keep in the conversation.

"Up in Colina." It was Mrs. Gallito that spoke.

An up-darting gleam of suddenly aroused interest and curiosity flashed
for a moment in Bob Flick's eyes. Was it possible that at the mention of
that name Hanson had started and that something which might have been
taken for the shadow of dismay had overfallen his face?

"Fine mining camp," Flick commented. "You know it at all, Mr. Hanson?"

Hanson had scratched a match to light his cigarette, but now he lifted
his eyes and looked across its tiny flare straight at Flick. "No," he
said indifferently, "never was in it in my life."

His tone and manner were both open and convincing, and yet the ruddy
color, as Flick noticed with merciless satisfaction, had not returned to
his face.

"He's an awful queer man," confided Mrs. Gallito in a low voice to
Hanson. "I suppose," with a sigh, "it's the Spanish of him. Just think,"
she spoke as one who has never overcome an unmitigated wonder, "born in
the sawdust same as me; his folks from way back all in the business, and
him with no use for it. Never rested till he got away from it. Why, he
didn't even want me to train Pearl, but," and here triumph rang in her
tones, "he couldn't help that. She took to it like a duck takes to
water. Always ready for it, never cried or complained at the long
hours."