CHAPTER XXX

IN SEARCH FOR A CLEW

The statement of De Garros concerning his chum struck Sam like a blow between the eyes. Of course he did not place the slightest belief in the Frenchman’s words, but he was sorely puzzled and perplexed.

“Where was this place?” he demanded.

“If you will come with me, I will show you,” said De Garros, linking the boy’s arm in his own. “How sorry I am that I did not accompany him myself! But I thought, I sincerely thought, that he was in good hands.”

“Who was this fellow that was with him,” demanded Sam.

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice particularly. It was no one I had ever seen before.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I told you, I did not pay him the attention that I should had I known things were going to turn out like this. He wore a big sun helmet, if that will afford you any clew.”

They were walking through the streets now toward the hut of Mother Jenny.

Sam suddenly stopped short and struck his forehead with his hand, as if striving to recollect something. Then he shouted:

“Why, why, it was a young man with a sun helmet who was talking to Jarrold at the hotel this morning.”

“So?” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Can this be more of that rascal’s villainy? Has he got a finger in this?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” declared Sam vehemently. “He hates Jack, and with good cause from his point of view, for Jack checkmated several of his schemes.”

“In Paris and again here, Jarrold,” muttered De Garros to himself, as if recalling some latent memory. “Some day, my friend, you will meet your reckoning.”

“You knew Jarrold abroad?” asked Sam.

“I knew him, yes. I was his victim, almost—but let us talk no more of this. Let us hurry to the place where I last saw Jack Ready.”

When they reached the hut with its palm thatch and untidy garden, Sam gave a gesture of disgust.

“And this is the place you saw Jack being helped out of?” he asked.

“It is, my friend.”

“I cannot think that he would ever have come to such a hovel of his own free will.”

“Possibly not. But you are confronted with the fact that he was here.”

“That is true. Let us ask that old hag in the doorway what she knows.”

They approached old Mother Jenny, who had hobbled to the doorway and stood watching them out of her bloodshot old eyes, puffing the while reflectively at a home-made cigar, as if ruminating on what the strangers wanted.

“We came to inquire about two young men who were here this morning,” began Sam.

The old woman’s voice rose to a shrill scream.

“What I know ’bout dem, buckra?” (White man.) “Dey come. Dey drink de cola an’ den dey pay and go. I know nothing mo’.”

“She’s lying,” whispered De Garros to Sam.

“Who was the hackman who drove them away?” demanded Sam.

The old woman started, but swiftly recovered her composure, if such it could be called, and flourished her stick wildly.

“Tell you what, buckra,” she yelled; “you go ’way. No bodder me no mo’. Me, Mother Jenny,’ ’spectable woman. Wha’ yo’ t’ink, buckra, yo’ fren’ come to harm by my place?”

“I didn’t say so. I merely asked the name of the hackman who drove them away?”

Sam knew how important it was to keep his temper with the old crone.

“How much it wort’ yo’ fo’ me to impart dat imflumation?” asked the old woman, leering hideously through a cloud of smoke she blew out of her wrinkled old lips.

“I’ll pay you well for it,” struck in De Garros, who had cabled for and received a large remittance. Poor Sam was almost “broke.”

“Fi’ dollar?”

De Garros nodded. The old hag stretched out a shriveled claw.

“Gib me de money, buckra,” she croaked; “gib me de money here in dis hand.”

“There you are,” said De Garros with a gesture of disgust and annoyance.

The aged crone burst into a scream of wild laughter. She shook with mirth and then shrilled out in her high, cracked voice:

“He drove a brown horse, dat’s all I know. Now go look fo’ him yo’ ownselves!”