Checked, but not daunted, Ezekiel coolly returned to the stage office, and taking the first opportunity when Mateo passed through the rear door, followed him.
As he expected, the innkeeper turned to the left and entered a large room filled with tobacco smoke and the local habitues of the posada.
But Ezekiel, shrewdly surmising that the private entrance must be in the opposite direction, turned to the right along the passage until he came unexpectedly upon the corridor of the usual courtyard, or patio, of every Mexican hostelry, closed at one end by a low adobe wall, in which there was a door.

The free passage around the corridor was interrupted by wide partitions, fitted up with tables and benches, like stalls, opening upon the courtyard where a few stunted fig and orange trees still grew.

As the courtyard seemed to be the only communication between the passage he had left and the door in the wall, he was about to cross it, when the voices of two men in the compartment struck his ears.
Although one was evidently an American's, Ezekiel was instinctively convinced that they were speaking in English only for greater security against being understood by the frequenters of the posada.

It is unnecessary to say that this was an innocent challenge to the curiosity of Ezekiel that he instantly accepted.

He drew back carefully into the shadow of the partition as one of the voices asked-- "Wasn't that Johnson just come in ?" There was a movement as if some one had risen to look over the compartment, but the gathering twilight completely hid Ezekiel.
"No!" "He's late.