now you do," says I. "But why ask me? How do you hook up the
Corrugated Trust with any such wild----"

"See," says Don Pedro, producin' a yellow old letter. "This came to
Donna Mario just before the war. It is on the note paper of your firm."

"Why, that's so!" says I. "Must have been when we were in the old
building, long before my time. But as far as--Say, the name ain't
Yohness. It's Jones, plain as day."

"Yes, Yohness," says Don Pedro, spellin' it out loud, "Y-o-n-e-s. You
see, in Spanish we call it Yohness."

He don't say it just like that, either, but that's as near as I can get
it. Anyway, you'd never recognize it as Jones.

"Well," I goes on, "I don't know of anybody around the place now who
would fit your description. In fact, I don't believe there's anybody by
the name of--Yes, there is one Jones here, but he can't be the party. He
isn't that kind of a Jones."

"But if he is Senor Jones--who knows?" insists Don Pedro.

Then I has to stop and grin. Huh! Old Jonesey bein' suspected of ever
pullin' stuff like that. Say, why not have him in and tax him with it.
"Just a sec.," says I. "You can take a look yourself."

I finds Jonesey with his head in a file drawer, as usual, and without
spillin' anything of the joke I leads him in and lines him up in front
of Don Pedro.

"Listen, Jonesey," says I. "This gentleman comes from Havana. Were you
ever there?"

"Why, ye-e-e-es. Once I was," says Jonesey, sort of draggy, as if tryin'
to remember.

"You were?" says I. "How? When?"

"It--it was a long time ago," says Jonesey.

"Perdone," breaks in Don Pedro. "Were you not known as Senor El
Capitan?"

"Me?" says Jonesey. "Why--I--some might have called me that."

"Great guns!" I gasps. "See here, Jonesey; you don't mean to say you've
got the ring too?"

"The ring?" says he, tryin' to look blank. But at the same time I notice
his hand go up to his shirt front sort of jerky.

"The ring of the Senorita Donna Mario," cuts in Don Pedro eager.

That don't get any hysterical motions out of him, though. He just stands
there, lookin' from one to the other of us slow and dazed, as if
something was tricklin' down into his brain. Once or twice he rubs a
dingy hand over his bald head. It seemed to help.

"Donna Mario, Donna Mario," he repeats, half under his breath.

"Yes," says I. "And isn't that something like the ring you're coverin'
up there under your shirt bosom? Let's see."

Without a word he unbuttons hi