had related of the Pool, and one chance remark
returned to him with the force of an inspiration. Hallock himself had
learned the story from a hunchbacked Mexican who had it from his
grandmother, and the little Jose, the crippled victim of Starr Wiley's
heedless brutality, had been hunchbacked; the old crone in the shack by
the zapote trees, his grandmother, looked as if many mysteries and
legends might be hidden behind her fierce, inscrutable eyes.

This was slender foundation on which to build a theory, but how else
had the little lad awakened the vengeful antipathy of Wiley? What was
it that he refused to tell him?

Thode had more than a suspicion that Wiley's objective in Limasito was
closely allied to his own. If Jose had indeed been Hallock's
informant, and the unscrupulous promoter had traced the legend to this
latest source, his anger at being unable to bully the boy into further
disclosures would be easily understood.

That night, when the moon had risen, Thode crossed the plaza and
started out on foot for the shack. He would not allow himself a glance
in the direction of the metamorphosed Blue Chip, but resolutely held
his thoughts to the immediate issue. Jose had accepted him not only as
a benefactor but as the friend of his adored senorita; would he be
induced to speak?

The shack was dark when he finally reached it and only silence greeted
his knock upon the sagging door. It yielded to his touch, and after a
moment's hesitation he stepped inside, and groping, found the lamp.

Touching a match to the wick, he replaced the cracked chimney and
looked about him. Gone!

The little one-room dwelling was in chaos, the chest of drawers
ransacked and even the two poor beds had been pulled violently apart.
Everything spoke of hasty and frenzied flight. What could it mean?

As the young engineer stood bewildered at this unexpected scene, there
came over his senses once more the inexplicable intuition of the
afternoon. Someone, something was spying upon him!

He thrust it into the back of his mind, however, striving to recall a
memory which eluded him. What had Billie told him of a witch's
cauldron in the grove of zapote trees, where the old crone had wrought
magic which to her, at least, was very real? Could the explanation of
this amazing evanescence be found there?

Shading the lamp with his hand, he stumbled out the door and followed
the weed-choked path to the little clearing. A huge battered