; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast--and
elsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine--has been
for years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in Simiti to learn what he
might there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a
woman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the
town, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks
there may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio's old slaves still
living in Simiti, or near there, and that they know the location of
the lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn
the secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to
light. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt to locate it, or
purchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry.
And you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually
have it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in
Colombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the
location of that famous property--which by rights is yours, having
belonged to your grandfather--_keep the information strictly to
yourself_!

"I do not know Simiti. But I shall be working in the Guamoco district
for many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my
runners up and down the Simiti trail frequently, and may get in touch
with you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is
whistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both
Wenceslas and Diego--cultivate the people of Simiti--and keep your
mouth closed."

A few minutes later Jose stood on the river bank beside his little
haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw
away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it
disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise
above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had
waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of
welcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers.

He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a
typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a
half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives,
with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions--this was
Badillo.

"_Senor Padre._" A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white
cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kind