S they approached the wharf, Darrell watched intently the group of Mexicans who were moving slowly out upon it with an appearance of languid interest, as if the arrival of a steamer was a matter of little moment. Surely they did not behave like men who had not set eyes on a strange face in months. This did not surprise the secret-service agent, however; past experience had taught him the nature of these indolent people.
On the wharf the Mexicans drew around them, offering to carry their bags, provide supper, a bed, transportation to wherever they were going, or anything else, in fact, which would bring in a few centavos. It was all the humdrum scene; yet Darrell had a curious feeling that it was overdone.
For a few seconds he stood as if undecided, his eyes taking in everything which went on about him. He saw Carmen pick out one of the natives and start off toward a house at the end of the row. He beheld the genial Billy Boote fiercely wave other greasers aside, and presently pursue his lurching way in the same general direction. Lastly he noticed that the little Jap had collapsed in a helpless heap at the end of the dock, as if too utterly exhausted to move another step. The fact that not one of the Mexicans so much as noticed him seemed more than significant to Darrell.
An instant later, Bellamy plucked his arm. “Carmen and Boote are together, Dal,” he whispered swiftly. “They're friends. Did you see Carmen shut up the old pirate in the boat? And look at them now. I tell you they're here for one and the same purpose.”
“Of course they are,” returned Darrell. “Didn't you get wise to that before?”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned abruptly to the lingering crowd. “Who is the owner of that house?” he asked, in good Spanish, pointing to one which faced the wharf and seemed a trifle superior to the others.
“It is I, señor,” spoke up a little man, bowing his way forward. “Will the señores have supper, perhaps, and a bed?”
“Yes,” said Darrell. “And let us have the supper, please, as soon as possible.”
Taking up the two bags, the Mexican led the way down the wharf and into the building. The door opened directly into a small room which was a trifle more tidy than a pigsty, but Darrell was not thinking of dirt just then. With a swift, casual movement, he stepped toward a window and glanced out. The knot of natives was languidly dispersing, but Sudo was not among them. Neither was he crouching on the wharf, or anywhere in sight. In that brief space he had vanished as if the earth or sea had swallowed him, and the discovery brought a faint, enigmatic smile twisting the corners of Darrell's mouth.
“How long will it take you to get supper?” he asked abruptly, turning to the Mexican.
“But a little while, señor,” the man replied. “A scant half hour, and all will be in readiness.”
“Very well; make what speed you can. Meanwhile, my friend and I will stroll outside. We have been long aboard ship.”
He was watching the man intently, and did not miss the flash of uneasiness which rose into the black eyes.
“The sun sets, señor,” protested the Mexican, after a second's hesitation, “and the fever mists arise.”
“We shall not be gone long enough to harm us,” Darrell answered. “Be sure you have the meal ready within a half hour.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped through the doorway, followed by Bellamy, and turned to the left along the fronts of the row of houses.
“Curious how the mists rise the minute the sun is down,” he remarked casually, as they walked slowly on over the sand, trodden hard by the constant passing of the Mexicans.
Though the glowing sphere had barely dropped below the line of the islands, faint eddies and spirals of mist were already swirling shoreward in swiftly increasing volume, obscuring the flaunting splendor of blue and gold which tinged the western sky. Through the gathering mists they saw the Golden Horn, headed again for the open sea, and trailing a black smudge against the heavens. The sight engulfed them both with a sudden sense of loneliness that was almost sickening; a feeling of being deserted at the desolate ends of the earth; and, though neither spoke the thought, they wondered if the departing steamer was not bearing away their only hope of ever returning to the world from which they had marooned themselves by their own voluntary action.