"Ah yais," said the tall man eagerly. "I know 'im. An' there you
shoot the Intendente, not? That was ver' fine. I see you coom down
all quiet, an' shoot 'im in the 'ead. It was done ver' naice, eh!"

Mills's face darkened. "He was robbin' me, the swine," he answered.
"He'd been robbin' me for six months. But that's nobody's business
but mine, and anyhow I didn't shoot him in the head. It was in the
chest. An' now, who the blazes are you?"

"You do' know me?" smiled the stranger; "but I know you. Oh, ver'
well. I see you ver' often. You see. My name is Jacques."

"Jack what?" demanded Mills.

"Not Jack--Jacques. Tha's all. All the people call me Frenchy, eh?
You don' remember?"

"No," said Mills thoughtfully; "but then I seen a good many chaps,
and I'd be like to forget some o' them. You doin' anything round
here?"

The man who called himself Jacques held up a finger. "Ah, you wan' to
know, eh? Well, I don' tell you. I fin' anything, I don' tell all the
people; I don' blow the gaff. I sit still, eh? I lie low, eh? I keep
'im all for me, eh? You see?"

"Well, of course," agreed Mills; "struck a pocket, I suppose. I
shouldn't have thought you'd have found much here. But then, of
course, you're not going to give your game away. Where's your camp? I
could do with a drink."