 CHAPTER XXIV The girl felt as if some great flood were sweeping her off her feet. She clutched mechanically at everything to save herself. Night was there. She stood between her and desolation, but if he had spoken then, if he had said he wanted her and begged her to stay, she would have chosen desolation. Instead he was silent, his eyes not on her, but on the desert. You—swear you will let me live my own life? she faltered. I swear I will let you live your own life. He repeated her words, as he had repeated the words of the clergyman who had, according to the law of God, given this woman to this man. The train was stopping. Anisly knew that she could not go on alone. I will try, Texas, she said, in a final decision. Las Cruces Ranch was named, not after the New Mexico town thirty or forty miles away, but in honor of the holy crosses which had rested there one night, centuries ago, while on a sacred pilgrimage. It was a lonely ranch, as far from El Paso in Texas as it was from the namesake town in New Mexico. Even the nearest village, a huddled collection of low adobe houses and wooden shacks on the Rio Grande, Furious River, as the Indians called it, was ten miles distant. Only the river was near, as the word near is used in that land of vast spaces. At night if a great wind blew, Anisly fancied she could hear the voice of the rushing water. When she first saw the place where she had bound herself to live, her heart sank. It seemed that she would not be able to support the loneliness, for it would be desperately lonely to live here, lacking the companionship of someone dearly loved. But afterward she could no more analyze her feeling for the country than for the man who had brought her to it. Lonely as she was she was never homesick. Indeed she had no home to long for, no one whose love called her back to the old world. And she was glad that there were no neighbors to come, to call her Mrs. Donaldson and ask questions about England. She had nobody except the Mexican servant woman and the cowboys who stayed with the new rancher when the old one went away. Knight had suggested that she should wait in El Paso until he had seen whether the house was habitable for her, and had made it so, if it were not already. But Anisly had chosen to begin her new life without delay, for she was in a mood where hardships seemed of no importance. It was only when she had to face them in their sordid nakedness that she shrank. Yet after all what did it matter? If she had stepped into the most luxurious surroundings she would have been no less unhappy. The low house was of adobe, plastered white, but stained and battered where the walls were not hidden by rank-growing creepers, convolvulus and mediravines. If the girl had read its description in some book, the veranda formed by the steep sloping roof of the one-story building, the patio walled mysteriously in with high, flower-draped barrier, the long windows with green shutters, she would have imagined it to be picturesque. But it was not picturesque. It was only shabby and uninviting. At least that was her impression when she arrived toward evening after a long, jolting drive in a hired motor-car. The paintless wooden balustrade and flooring of the veranda were broken. So also were the faded green shutters. The patio was but a little square of dust and stringy grass. A few dilapidated chairs stood about, homemade-looking chairs with concave seats of worn cowskin. Inside the house there was little furniture, and what there was struck anusly as hideous. Nothing was whole. Everything was falling to pieces. Illustrations cut out of newspapers were pasted on the dirty, white-washed walls. The slatternly servant, who could speak only mechs, had got no supper ready. Knight would let anusly do nothing, but he deftly helped the woman to fry some eggs and make coffee. He tried to find dishes which were not cracked or broken, and could not. If he and anusly had loved each other, or had even been friends, they would have laughed and enjoyed the adventure. But anusly had no heart for laughter. She could only smile a frozen, polite little smile, and say that it did not matter. Everything would do very well. She would soon get used to the place and learn how to get on. When she had to speak to-night she called him you. There was no other name which she could bear to use. He had had too many names in the past. As time went on, however, the girl surprised herself by not being able to hate her home. She found mysteriously lovely colors in the yellow-gray desert, shadows blue as lupines and purple as Russian violence, highlights of shimmering pale gold. Spanish bayonets, straight and sharp as enchanted swords which had magically flowered, lily'd the desert stretches, and there were strange red blossoms like drops of blood clinging to the points of long daggers. Bird of Paradise plants were there, too, well-named for their plummy splendor of crimson, white, and yellow, and as the spring advanced the china trees brought memories of English lilacs. The air was sweet with the scent of locus blossoms, and along the clear horizon fantastically formed mountains seemed to float like changing cloud shapes. The cattle which Knight had bought from the departing rancher had their corrals and scanty pastures far from the house, but the cowboy's quarters were near and annously never tired of seeing the laughing young men mount and ride their slim, nervous horses. This fact they got to know and performed incredible antics to excite her admiration. They thought her beautiful and wondered if she had lost someone whom she loved that she should look so cold and sad. These men, though she seldom spoke to any, were a comfort to annously. Without their shouts and rough jokes and laughter the place would have been gloomy as a grave. There was a colony of prairie dogs which she could visit by taking a long walk, and they, too, were comforting. It was Knight who told her of the creatures and where to seek them, but he did not show her the way. If things had been well between them, the man's anxiety to please her would have been adorable to annously. As soon as he saw the deficiencies of the house he went himself to El Paso to choose furniture and pretty simple chintzes, old-fashioned china and delicate glass, bedroom and table-damask. He ordered books also and subscribed for magazines and papers. During he said nothing of what he had done, for he hoped that the surprise might prick the girl to interest, rousing her from the lethargy which had settled over her like a fog. But her gratitude was perfunctory. She was always polite, but the pretty things seemed to give her no real pleasure. Knight had to realize that she was one of those people who, when inwardly unhappy, are almost incapable of feeling small joys, such as she had were found in getting away from him as far as possible. She practically lived out of doors in the summer time, taking pains to go where he would not pass on his rounds of the ranch, and even after the sitting-room had been made livable with the new carpet laid by night, and the chintz curtains he put up with his own hands, she fled to her room for sanctuary. Knight's search for capable servants was vain until he picked up a Chinaman from over the Mexican border, illegal but valuable as a household asset. Under the new regime there was good food, and honestly had no work save the hopeless task of finding happiness. It was easy to see from the white, set look of her face as the monotonous months dragged on that she was no nearer to accomplishing that task than on the day of her arrival. Nothing that Knight could do made any difference. When an upright cottage piano appeared one day, the girl seemed distressed rather than pleased. You shouldn't spend money on me, she said in the gentle, weary way that was becoming habitual. It's the good fund, money. Knight had explained hastily and almost humbly. It's growing, you know. I've struck some fine investments, and I'm going to do well with this ranch. We don't need to economize. I thought you'd enjoy a piano. Thank you. You're very kind, she answered, as if he had been a stranger. But I'm out of practice. I hardly feel energy to take it up again. His hopes of what Texas might do for her faded slowly, and even when their fire had died under cooling ashes, his silent, unobtrusive care never relaxed. Only the deepest love, such love as can remake a man's whole nature, could have been strong enough to bear the strain. But honestly, blinded by the anguished which never ceased to ache, did not see that it was possible for such a nature to change. She, who had believed passionately in her hero of romance, was stripped of all belief in him now, as a young tree in blossom is stripped of its delicate bloom by an icy wind. Not believing in him, neither did she believe in his love. She thought that he was sorry for her, that he was grateful for what she had done to help him, that perhaps for the time being he intended to turn over a new leaf, not really for her sake, but because he had been in danger of being found out. Finally she told herself that these pretense of ranching was one of the many adventures dotted along his career, one act in the melodrama of which he delighted to be the leading actor. His own love of luxury and charming surroundings was enough to account for the improvements he had hastened to make at the ranch house. Anxiously she put away all thought that what he did was for her. She did not wish to accept it. She did not want the obligation of gratitude. It even seemed purile that he should attempt to make up for spoiling her life by supplying a few easy chairs and pictures and a Chinese cook. He likes the things himself and can't live without them, she insisted, and it was to show him that he could not atone in such childish ways that she lived out of doors or hid in her own room. At first she locked the door of that room when she entered, thinking of it defiantly as her fortress, which must be defended. But when weeks grew into months and the enemy never attacked the fortress her vigilance relaxed. She forgot to lock the door. Summer passed. Autumn and then winter came. Night was a good deal away for he had bought an interest in a newly opened copper mine in the Oregon Mountains, and was interested in the development which might mean fortune. At night, however, he came back in the second-hand motor-car which he had got at a bargain price in El Paso and drove himself. Anxiously never failed to hear him return, though she gave no sign. And sometimes she would peep through the slats of her green shutters on one side of the patio at the windows of his bedroom and office, which were opposite. It was seldom that his light did not burn late, and anxiously went to bed thinking hard thoughts, asking herself what schemes of new adventure he might be plotting for the day when he should tire of the ranch. Often she wondered that her life was not more hateful than it was. For somehow it was not hateful. Texas, with its vast spaces and blowing gusts of ozone, had begun to mean more for her than her cold reserve let-night guests, more than she herself could understand. On Christmas morning, when she opened her bedroom door, she almost stumbled over a covered Mexican basket of woven-colored straws. Something inside it moved inside. She stooped, lifted the cover, and saw, curled up on a bit of red blanketing, a miniature Chihuahua dog. It had a body as slight and shivering as a tendril of grapevine, a tiny pointed face, with a high forehead and immense, almost human eyes. At the side of her a thread of tail-wagged and anxiously felt a warm, impulsive affection toward the little creature. Of course it was a present from night, though there was no word to tell her so, and if the dog had not looked at her with an offer of all its love and self, she would perhaps have refused to accept it rather than encouraging the giving of gifts. But after that look she could not let the animal go. Its possession made life warmer, and it was good to see it lying in front of her open fire of mesquite roots. She had no Christmas gift for night. He had made, soon after there coming to the ranch, a cactus fence round the house enclosure, and seeing the dry ugliness of the long, straight sticks placed close together, anisly disliked and wondered at it. At last she questioned night and complained that the bristly barrier was an eyesore. She wished it might be taken down. "'Wait till spring,' he answered. "'It isn't a barrier. It's an allegory. Maybe when you see what happens you'll understand. Maybe you won't. It depends on your own feelings.' Anisly said no more, but she did not forget. She thought, if her understanding of the allegory meant any change of feeling which the man might be looking for in her, she would never understand. She hated to look at the line of stark, naked sticks, but they and the allegory they represented constantly recurred to her mind. One day in spring she noticed that the sticks looked less dry. Knob-like buds had broken out upon them, the first sign that they were living things. It happened to be Easter Eve, and she was restless, full of strange thoughts as the yellow-flowering, grease-wood bushes were full of rushing sap. A year ago that night her love for her husband had died at sudden, tragic death. In the very act of forgiveness, forgiveness had been killed. Night had gone off early that morning in his motor-car, the poor car which was a pathetic contrast to the glories of last year in England. He was gone before she was up, and had mentioned to the Chinese cook that he might not be back until late. That means after midnight, she told herself, and since she was as free as air she decided to take a long walk in the afternoon, as far as the river. It seemed that if she stayed in the house the thought of life as it might have been, and life as it was, would kill her on this day of all other days. I wish I could die, she said, but not here, somewhere a long way off from everyone and from him. As she passed the cactus fence the buds were big. Across the river where the water flowed high and wide just then lay Mexico. Anna's lee had never been there, though she could easily have gone had she wished from the ranch to El Paso, and from El Paso to the queer old historic town of Juarez. But she could not have gone without night, and there was no pleasure in travelling with him. Besides, there was trouble across the border, and fierce fighting now and then. There had been some thievish raids made by Mexicans upon ranches along the river not many miles away, and that reminded her how night had remarked some weeks ago that she had better not go alone as far as the river bank. It isn't likely that anything would happen by day, he said, but she might be shot at from the other side. Anna's lee was not afraid, and there was a faint stirring of pleasure in the thought that she was doing something against his wish on this anniversary. Deliberately she sat alone by the river, waiting for the pageant of sunset to pass, and when she reached home the moon was up, a great white moon that turned the waving waste of pale sparse grasses to a silver sea. She had taken sandwiches and fruit with her, telling the cook that she would want no dinner when she came back. Away in the cow-puncher's quarters there was music, and she flung herself into a hammock on the veranda to rest and listen. There was a soft yet cool wind from the south, bringing the fragrance of creosote blossoms, and it seemed to the girl that never had she seen such white floods of moonlight, not even that night a year ago at Valley House. The sky was milk-white. There were no black shadows anywhere, only dove-grey ones, except under the veranda roof. Her hammock was screened from the light by one dark shadow, like a straight-hung curtain. Save for the music of a fiddle and men's voices the silver-white world lay silent in enchanted sleep. Then suddenly something moved. A tall, dark figure was coming to the veranda. It paused at the cactus fence. Could it be night, home already, and on foot? No, it was a woman. She walked straight and fast and unhesitatingly to the veranda where she sat down on the steps. Anna'sley raised herself on her elbow and peered out of the concealing shadow. Who could the woman be? It was on the tip of her tongue to call, Who are you, when a sudden lifting of the bent face under a drooping hat brought it beneath the search light of the moon. The woman was the Countess de Santiago, and the moon's radiance so lit her dark eyes that she seemed to look straight at Anna'sley in her hammock. The girl's heart gave a leap of some emotion like fear yet not fear. She did not stop to analyze it, but she knew that she wished to escape from the woman, and an instant's reflection told her that she could not be seen if she kept still. She began to think quickly, and her thoughts, confused at first, frightened themselves out like threads disentangled from a knot. The woman had marched up to the veranda with such unfaltering certainty that it seemed she must have been there before. Perhaps she had arrived while the mistress of the house was out, and had been walking about the place to pass away the time. But she hasn't come to see me, the girl in the hammock thought. She has come to see night. It's for him she is waiting. Anger stirred in Anna'sley's heart. Anger against night as well as against Madalena. Has he written and told her to come, she asked herself. Does she think she can stay in this house? No, she shall not. I won't have her here. She was half-minded to rise abruptly and surprise the Countess, as the Countess had surprised her, to ask why she had come, and to show that she was not welcome. But if Madalena were here at night's invitation she would stay. There would be a scene, perhaps. The thought was revolting. Anna'sley lay still, and in the distance she heard the throbbing of a motor. CHAPTER XXV. The Second Latch-Key by Charles Norris and Alice Muriel-Williamson, CHAPTER XXV. The Allegory. Anna'sley knew that night was in the habit of coming home that way, in order not to disturb her with the noise of the car if she had gone to bed. If he were bringing parcels from the little mining-town he drove to the house, left the packets, and ran the auto to a shanty he had rigged up for a garage. A few seconds later this small open car came into sight, and Madalena sprang up, waving a dark veil she had snatched off her hat. She feared no doubt that the man might take another direction and perhaps get into the house by some door she did not know before she could intercept him. From a little distance the tall figure, standing on the verandah steps, must have been silhouetted black against the white wall of the house, clearly to be seen from the advancing motor. Like as a bird in flight the car sped along the road, wheeled off to the stiff grass, and drew up close to the verandah steps. Good heavens, Madalena! Anna'sley heard her husband exclaim. I thought it was my wife and that something had gone wrong. The surprise, sharpening his tone, did away with the doubt in the mind of the hidden listener. She had said to herself that the woman was here by appointment, and that this hour had been chosen because the meeting was to be secret. I wanted you to think so, and to come straight to this place. Returned the once familiar voice. Don, I travelled from San Francisco to see you. Do say you are glad. I can't, the man answered. I'm not glad. You tried to ruin me. You tried in a coward's way. You struck me in the back. I hope never to see you again. How did you find me? I've known for a long time that you were in Texas, said Madalena. Lady Anna'sley Seaton and I kept up a correspondence for months after you, sent me away so cruelly in such a hurry. Believing hateful things, though you had no proof. She wrote that Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith would probably never come back to England to settle, as she'd heard from Mrs. Waldo, that they'd gone to live in Texas. She asked if I knew whether Nelson Smith had lost his money. I forgot to answer that question when I answered the letter. But when she said, Texas, I felt sure you must be somewhere in this part. I remembered you telling me about the ranch, that consumptive gambler left you on the Mexican frontier. What a fool I was to tell you! Knight exclaimed roughly. The words and his way of flinging them at her were like a box on the ear, and Anna'sley lying in her hammock, heard with a thrill of pleasure. She was ashamed of the thrill, and ashamed because suddenly awakened to the realization that she was eavesdropping. But it seemed impossible that she should break in upon this talk, and reveal her presence. She felt that she could not do it, though searching her conscience she was not sure whether she clung to silence because it was the lesser of two evils, or because she longed with a terrible longing to know whether these two would patch up their old partnership. If you knew why I had come all these miles, maybe you would not be so hard, Madeline pleaded. That I can't tell until I do hear. Said Knight, dryly. I am going to explain. She tried to soothe him. A great thing has happened. I can be rich, and live easily all the rest of my years if I choose. But I wanted to see you before deciding. I arrived in El Paso yesterday, and went to Paso del Norte hotel. To inquire about you, I was almost certain you would have taken back your own name, because I knew you used to be known by it when you stayed in Texas. I soon found out that I'd guessed right. I heard you'd stopped at that hotel last year on the way to your ranch. I hired a motor-car and came here today, but I didn't let the man bring me to the house. I didn't want to dash up and advertise myself. I questioned some of your cowmen. They said you'd gone off, and would be getting back at night in your automobile, not earlier than ten, and maybe a good deal later. So I waited. The car I hired is a covered one, and I sat in it, a long way from the house, out of sight, behind a little rising of the land. Perhaps you call it a hill. We do, said Knight. I brought some food and wine. The chauffer is there with the car now. He has cigarettes, and doesn't mind if we stay all night. I mined. Knight cut her short. You can't stay all night. The road's good enough with such a moon for you to get back to El Paso. You'd better start, so as to reach there before she sets. Wait till you hear what I've come. Before you advise me to hurry. The count is protested. There's no danger of her being disturbed. Is there? Where's your wife? In bed and asleep, I trust. I'm glad. Then will you sit on the top of these stairs, in this heavenly moonlight, and let me tell you things that are important to me? Perhaps you may think they are important to you as well. Who knows? I know. Nothing you can have to say will be important to me. I won't sit down. Thank you. I've been sitting in my car for hours. I prefer to stand. Very well. But how hard you are. Even now you won't believe. I was innocent of that thing you accused me of doing. I think now what I thought then. You were not innocent but guilty. You were just a plain, ordinary, sneak Maddalena, because you were jealous and spiteful. It is not true, spiteful against you. It was never in my heart to lie. Jealous, perhaps. But that is not to say I wrote the letter you believe I wrote. You didn't give me time to try and prove I did not write the letter. You accused me brutally. You ordered me out of England with threats. I obeyed, because I was heartbroken. Not because I was afraid. Why trouble to excuse yourself, he asked. It's not worth the time it takes. If you have come to tell me anything in particular, tell it, and let's make an end. I have an offer of marriage from a millionaire, the Countess announced, in a clear triumphant tone. Which note out you accepted, not to say snapped at? Not yet. I put him off, because I wanted to see you before I answered. You flatter me. Night laughed. Not pleasantly. If you have come from San Francisco to get my advice on that subject, I can give it while you count three. Make sure of the unfortunate wretch before he changes his mind. Ah, if I could think that your harshness comes from just a little, ever so little jealousy, Madeline aside. He won't change his mind. There is no danger. He is old, and I see him a young girl to him. He adores me. He is on his knees. Bad for rheumatism. He thinks I am the most wonderful creature who ever lived. I met him through my work. He came from a friend of his, who told him about my crystal, and about me too. You are still working the crystal. But, of course, it has always given me the path to success. If I marry this man, I shall be able to rest. On your laurels, such as they are. On his money he can't live many years. You are an affectionate fiance. I am not a fiance yet. Not till I give my answer. And that depends on you. Oh, Don, surely you must be sick of this, this existence, for it is not life. I know you are angry with me, but you can't hate me really. It is not possible for a man with blood in his body to hate a woman who loves him as I love you. I have tried to get over it. At first I thought I was succeeding. But no, when the reaction came I found that I cared more than ever. We were born for each other. It must be so, for without you I am only half alive. I haven't come for your advice, Don, to make you an offer. Oh, not an offer of myself. I should not dare, as you feel now. And it is not an offer from me only. It is from a great person who is something to give, which is worth your accepting, even if my love is not. You've got in touch with him, have you?" Knight broke into the rushing torrent of her words, as a man might take a plunge into a cataract. Why not? she answered. I didn't seek him out. It was he who sought me. You don't know how to speak the truth, Madalina. You said you found me through Lady Anisley Seaton, hearing from Mrs. Waldo, whereas you wrote to Paul Van Vreck. You do me injustice, always. I did hear from Constance. Then I merely ventured to write and asked Mr. Van Vreck if he kept up communication with you, and you said in your letter to him that you knew where I was and gave him to understand that we were in touch with each other, or he would have let out nothing. He has written and told you this? She spoke breathlessly, as if in fear. Ah, you give yourself away. No, I haven't heard from Van Vreck since I saw him in New York, and thought I convinced him that my working days for him were over. I simply guessed, knowing you, what you would do. I may have mentioned Texas, Madalina admitted. I suppose he knew where you were. I couldn't have told him because I didn't know. But he wrote and suggested I should use my influence with you to reconsider your decision. Those were his words. How much has he paid you for coming here? Nothing, as if I would take money for coming to you. You have taken it for some queer things, and will again if you don't settle down to private life with your millionaire. It's no use, Madalina. Go back to San Francisco, send in your bill to Van Vreck, tell him there's nothing doing, and make up your mind to marriage. But Don, you haven't heard what he offers. It can't be more than he offered me himself when I saw him in New York. It is more, he says that particularly. He raises the offer from last time. It is three times higher. Think what that means. Oh, Don, it means life. Real life, not stagnation. I would give up safety and a million to be with you as your partner again, your humble partner. Here, on this bleak ranch, it is like death, a death of dullness. I know what you must be suffering because you are obstinate, because you have taken a resolve, and are determined not to break it. You are afraid it will be weakness to break it. There can be no other reason. I have asked questions about your life here. I have learned things. I know she is as cold as ice. If you stay, you will degenerate. You will become cold. Leave this hideous gray place. Leave that woman who treats you like a dog. Let the ranch be hers, send her money. You will have it to spare. She can divorce you, and you will be freed for ever from the one great mistake you ever made. As for me, as for you, be silent. The command struck like a whiplash. You are not worthy to speak of that woman, as you call her. If I did what you deserve, I'd send you off without another word, turn my back on you and let you go, but— He drew in his breath sharply, then went on as if he had taken some tonic decision. I want you to understand why, if Paul Van Vreck offered me all his money, and you offered me the love of all the women on earth with your own, I shouldn't be tempted to accept. It's because of that woman who is my wife. It may be true that she treats me like a dog, for she wouldn't be cruel to the meanest cur, but I'd rather be her dog than any other woman's master. So you see now, it's come to that with me. I won her love and married her for my own advantage. I lost her love because she found me out, through you, mild justice that perhaps. But all the same getting her for mine has been for my advantage, in a different way from what I had planned, but ten thousand times greater, though she's taken her love from me, she's giving me back my soul. Nothing can rob me of that so long as I run straight. And I tell you, Maddalena, this ranch, where I'm working out some kind of expiation, and maybe redemption, is God's earth for me now. Now, do you understand? For an instant the woman was silent. Then she broke into loud sobbing, which she did not try to check. Oh, you're a fool, Don! she wept. A fool! Maybe, but I am not the devil's fool as I used to be. Don't cry, you might be heard. Come, it's time to go. We've said all we have to say to each other, except good-bye, if that's not mockery. Maddalena dried her tears, still sobbing under her breath. At least take me to the automobile, she said. Don't send me off alone in the night. I'm afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of, Knight answered. The flame of his fierceness burnt down. But I'll go with you, and put you on the way back to El Paso. Come along. As he spoke he started, and Maddalena was forced to go with him, forced to keep up with his long strides if she would not be left behind. When they had gone, annously lay motionless, as though she were under a spell. The man's words, to the other woman, wove the spell which bound her, listening as they repeated themselves in her mind. Again and again she heard them, as they had fallen from his lips. His expiation, perhaps his redemption, here on his bed of God's earth. It may be true that she treats me like a dog, but I'd rather be her dog than any other woman's master. And this was Easter Eve, a year to the night since his martyrdom began. Something seemed to seize annously by the hand, and break the bonds that held her. Something strong though invisible. She sat up with a faint cry, as of one awakened from a dream, and slipped out of the hammock. There was a dim idea in her mind that she must go along the road where they had gone, so as to meet Knight on his way back. She did not know what she would say to him, or whether she could say anything at all. But there's something which had taken her hand, and snatched her out of the hammock, dragged her on and on. At first she obeyed the force blindly. I must see him. I must see him. The words spoke themselves in her head. But when she had hurried out of the enclosure, walled in by the cactus hedge, the brilliant moonlight seemed to pierce her brain and make a cold, calm appeal to her reason. You can't tell him what you have heard, it said. He would be humiliated, or the thought was sharp as a gimlet. What if he saw you, and knew you were listening? What if he talked just for effect? He is so clever. He is subtle enough for that. And wouldn't it be more like the man than to say what he said sincerely? She stopped, and was thankful not to see her husband returning. There was time to go back if she hurried, and she must hurry. If he had seen her in the hammock and made that theatrical attempt to play upon her feelings, he would laugh at his own success if she followed him. And if he had not seen her, and were in earnest it would be best, indeed the only right way, not to let him guess, that the scene on the verandah steps had had a witness. Anisly turned to fly back, faster than she had come. But passing the cactus hedge her dress caught, it was as if the hedge sentiently took hold of her. She bent down to free the thin white material, and suddenly color blazed up to her eyes in the rain of silver moonlight. The buds had opened since she had noticed them last. No longer was the hedge a grim barricade of stiff dark sticks. Each stalk had turned into a tall, straight flame of lambent rose. From a dead thing of dreary ugliness it had become a thing of living beauty. Nights allegory. He had said, perhaps she might understand when the time came, and perhaps not. She did understand, but she had not faith to believe that the miracle could repeat itself in life. Her life and nights. She shut her eyes to the thought, and when she had freed her dress ran very fast to the house. CHAPTER XXVI. The three words. Night was generally far away long before Anisly was up in the morning, and often he did not come in till evening. She thought that on Easter day, however, he would perhaps not go far. She half expected that he would linger about the house or sit reading on the veranda, and she could not resist the temptation to put on one of the dresses he had liked in England. It was a little passe in old fashion, but he would not know this. What he might remember was that she had worn it at Valley House. And the wish to say something, as if accidentally about the flaming miracle of the cactus hedge, was as persistent in her heart as the desire of a crocus to push through the earth to the sunshine on a spring morning. She did not know whether the wish would survive the meeting with her husband. She thought that would depend as much upon him as upon her mood. But lunch and time came, and night did not appear. Anisly lunched alone in her gray frock. Even on days when night was with her, and they sat through their meals formally, it was the same as if she were alone, for they spoke little, and each was in the habit of bringing a book to the table. But she had not meant it to be so on Easter day. Even if she did not speak of the blossoming of the cactus, she had planned to show night that she was willing to begin a conversation. To talk at meals would be a way out of treating him like a dog. The pretty frock and the good intention were wasted. Late in the afternoon she heard from one of the line riders whom she happened to see that something had gone wrong with a windmill which gave water to the pumps for the cattle, and that her husband was attending to it. He's a natural-born engineer, said the man, whose business as line rider was to keep up the wire fencing from one end of the ranch to the other. I don't know how much he knows, but I know what he can do. Queer thing, ma'am, there don't seem to be much that Mike Donaldson can't do. Annasly smiled to hear night called Mike by one of his employees. She knew that he was popular, but never before had she felt personal pleasure in the men's tributes of affection. Today she felt a thrill. Her heart was warm with the spring and the miracle of the cactus hedge, and memories of impetuous, seemingly impetuous words of last night. If she could have seen night she would have spoken of his allegory, and that small opening might have let sunlight into their darkness. But he did not come even to dinner, and tired of waiting, and weary from a sleepless night she went to bed. Next morning a man arrived who wished to buy a bunch of Donaldson's cattle, which were beginning to be famous. He stayed several days, and when he left night had business at the copper mine, business that concerned the sinking of a new shaft, which took him back and forth nearly every day for a week. By and by the cactus flowers began to fade, and Annasly had never found an opportunity of mentioning them, or what they might signify. When she met night his manner was as usual, kind, unobtrusive, slightly stiff as though he were embarrassed, though he never showed signs of embarrassment with anyone else. She could hardly believe that she had not dreamed those words overheard in the moonlight. Week after week slipped away. The one excitement at Las Cruces Ranch was the fighting across the border, the great scare at El Paso, and the stories of small, yet sometimes tragic raids made by bands of cattle-stealers upon American ranches, which touched the Rio Grande. The water was low. This made private marauding expeditions easier, and the men of Las Cruces Ranch were prepared for anything. One night in May there was a sandstorm, which as usual played strange tricks with Annasly's nerves. She could never grow used to these storms, and the moaning of the hot wind seemed to her a voice that wailed for coming trouble. Night had been away on one of his motoring expeditions to the Oregon Mountains, and though he had told the Chinese boy that he would be back for dinner, he did not come. Doors and windows were closed against the blowing sand, but they could not shut out the voice of the wind. After dinner Annasly tried to read a new book from the library at El Paso, but between her eyes and the printed page would float the picture of a small, open automobile and its driver lost in clouds of yellow sand. Why should she care? The man was used to roughing it. He liked adventures. He was afraid of nothing and nothing ever hurt him. But she did care. She seemed to feel the sting of the sharp grains of sand on cheeks and eyes. She was sitting in her own room, as she was accustomed to do in the evening if she were not out on the veranda, the pretty room which Night had extravagantly made possible for her, with chintzes and furnishings from the best shops in El Paso. On this evening, however, she set both doors wide open, one which led into the living room, another leading into a corridor or hall. She could not fail to hear her husband when he came, even if he left his noisy car at the garage and walked to the house. A travelling clock on the mantelpiece, Constance Annasly Seton's gift struck nine. The girl looked up at the first stroke, wondering if serious accidents were likely to happen in sandstorms, and before the last note had ended she heard steps in the patio. He has come, she thought, with a throb of relief which shamed her. But the step was not like night's. It was hurried and nervous, and, as she told herself this, there sounded a loud knock at the door. There was an electric bell which Night had fitted up with his own hands, but it was not visible at night. No one except herself could hear this knocking, for the servants' quarters were at the far end of the bungalow. A little frightened, recalling stories of cattle-thieves and things they had done, Annasly went into the hall. Who is there? she cried, her face near the closed door, which locked itself in shutting. If a man's voice, the voice of a stranger, should reply in mechs, or with a foreign accent, the girl did not intend to let him in. A man's voice did reply, but neither in mechs nor with a foreign accent. It said, My name is Paul Van Vrek, open quickly please, I may be followed. Annasly's heart jumped, but without hesitation she pulled back the latch, and as she opened the door a rush of sand-laden wind wrenched it from her hand. She staggered away as the door swung free, and there was just time to see a tall, thin figure slip in like a shadow before the light of the hanging lamp blew out. The girl and the newcomer were in the dark, saved for a yellow ray that filtered into the hall from her room. But she saw him stoop to place a bag or bundle on the floor, then pulling the door, too, against the wind, slammed it shut with a click. Having done this, the tall shadow bent to pick up what it had laid down. Thank you, Mrs. Donaldson, for letting me in, said the most charming voice Annasly had ever heard. More charming even than knights. Evidently you've heard your husband mention me, or you might have kept me out there, parlaying, if you're alone, for these are stirring times. Yes, I've heard you mentioned by many people, the girl answered, stammering like a nervous child. Won't you come in into the living room? Not the room with the open door. That's mine. It's another, farther along the hall. I'm sorry, my husband's out. As she talked, she wondered at herself. She knew Van Vret for a super thief. He did not steal with his own hands, but he commanded other hands to seal, and that was even worse. Or she had thought it worse in her husband's case, and for more than a year she had punished him for his sins. Yet here she was almost welcoming this man. She did not understand why she felled, even without seeing him except as a shadow, that she would find herself wishing to do whatever he might ask. It must be, she thought, the influence of his voice. She had heard Paul Van Vret spoken of as an old man, but the voice was the voice of magnetic youth. He opened the door of the living room, and carrying his bundle followed her as she entered. There was only one lamp in this room, a tall reading lamp with a green silk shade, which stood on a table, its heavy base surrounded by books and magazines. A good light for reading was thrown from under the green shade onto the table, but the rest of the room was of a cool green dimness. And looking up with irresistible curiosity at the face of her night visitor, it floated pale on the vague background, like a portrait by Whistler. It was unnaturally white, the girl thought, and, yes, it was old, but it was a wonderful face, and the eyes illuminated it, immense eyes, though deep set and looking out of shadowed hollows under leveled brows, black as ink, anisly had never seen eyes so like strange jewels, lit from behind. That simile came to her and she smiled, for it was appropriate that this jewel expert should have jewels for eyes. They were dark topazes, and from them gazed the spirit of the man with a compelling charm. Under a rolled back wave of iron-gray hair he had a broad forehead, high cheekbones, a pointed, prominent chin, a mouth both sweet and humorous, like that of some enchanting woman, but its sweetness was contradicted by a hawk nose. Had it not been for that nose he would have been handsome. I guessed by the startled tone of your voice when you asked, Who is there that your husband was out? explained the shadow, now transformed by the light into an extremely tall, extremely thin man in gray traveling clothes. I had a moment of repentance at troubling a lady alone, but you see the case was urgent. He had carelessly tossed his Panama hat onto the table, but kept the black bag which he now held out with a smile. Not a big bag, is it? And so common it wouldn't be likely to tempt a thief. But it holds what is worth, if it has a price, about half a million dollars. Oh! exclaimed Anasly. She looked horrified, and through the green gloom the old man read her face. I see, he said, with a laugh and his young voice, you have heard the great secret. That makes another who knows. But I'm not afraid you'll throw me to the dogs. You wouldn't do that even if you weren't Donaldson's wife. Being his wife you could not. My husband has told me no secret about you, none at all, the girl protested, defending night involuntarily. I beg you to believe that, Mr. Van Vrek. I do believe it. If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's being a judge of character. That's why I've made a success of life. You wouldn't lie, perhaps not even to save the one you love best. I believe that he did not tell you the secret. Yet I'm certain you know it. I suppose other discoveries you must have made gave you supernatural intuition. You guessed. She did not answer. Yet she could not take her eyes from his. You needn't mind confessing. But I won't catachize you. I'll take it for granted that what Donaldson knows you know, not in detail, in the rough, in this bag are six gold images set with precious stones. They are of the time of the Incas, and they've been up till now the most precious things in Mexico. From now on they will be among the most precious things in Paul Van Vrek's secret collection. Some weeks ago I hoped that Donaldson would get them for me. He refused, so I had to go myself. I couldn't trust anyone else, though the only difficulty was getting to Central Mexico with constitutionals raging on one side and federales on the other. A man promised to deliver the goods to my messenger. I've been bargaining over these things for years. But, as I said, Don wouldn't go, so I had to do the job myself. You see, Mrs. Donaldson, your husband is the only honest man I ever came across. Honest, the exclamation burst from Annasly's lips. Yes, honest is the word. I might add two others, true and loyal. Paul Van Vrek held her with his strange, straight look, commanding yet amused. That is the opinion he added after a pause of a very old friend. It's worth its weight in gold images. The girl gave him no answer, but the effort of keeping her face under control made lips and eyelids quiver. May I sit down, Mrs. Donaldson? Van Vrek asked, in a tone, which changed to common-placeness, as if his voice could ever be commonplace. I'm a fugitive, and have had a run for my money, so to speak. I'm seeking sanctuary. Also, I came in the hope of trying my eloquence on Donaldson. But now I've seen you, I will not do that. In future he's safe from me, I promise you. Oh! Annasly faltered. And then— Thank you! came out, grudgingly. How astonishing that she should thank Paul Van Vrek, the monster of wickedness and secrecy she had pictured for sparing her husband—her husband whom he called loyal, true, whom she had called in her heart a thief. Do sit down, she hurried on, hypnotized. Forgive my not asking you. I—I understand, he soothed her. I've taken advantage of you, sprung a surprise, as Don would say, and then turned on the tortures of the Inquisition. Aren't you going to sit? I can't, you know, if you don't. I thought you might like something to eat, the girl stammered. I could call her a cook. No, thank you, replied Van Vrek. I'm peculiar in more ways than one. I never eat at night. I live mostly on milk, water, fruit, and nuts. That's why I feel forty at seventy-two. I give out that I'm frail and invalid, that I spent much time in nursing-homes. This is my joke on a public which has no business to be curious about my habits. While it thinks I'm recuperating in a nursing-home, I—but no matter, that won't interest you. When she had obediently sat down, her knees trembling a little, Van Vrek drew up a chair for himself, and resting his arms on the table, leaned across it, gazing at the girl with a queer, humorous benevolence. How soon do you think your husband will come? he asked, abruptly. I don't know, honestly replied. He told our Chinese boy he'd be early. I suppose the sandstorm has delayed him. No doubt, and you're worried? No, she answered, looking side-wise at Van Vrek. Her face half turned from him. I don't think that I'm worried. May I talk to you, frankly, till dawn does come? the old man asked. Certainly. I'll take you at your word. Mrs. Donaldson, when your husband called on me a year ago last spring in New York, he said nothing about you. I knew he'd married an English girl of good connections. Isn't that what you say on your side? And why he thought it would be wise to marry? But when he informed me that our association was to be ended, that nothing would induce him to continue it, I read between the lines. I'm sharp at that. I knew as well as if he told me that he'd fallen in love with the girl, that she'd unexpectedly become the important factor in his life, and that she'd found out a secret she'd never been meant to find out, his secret and maybe mine. I realized by his face, the look in the eyes, the tone of the voice, or rather the tomelessness of the voice, what her finding out meant for Don. I read by all signs that she was making him suffer atrociously, and I owed that girl a grudge. She'd taken him from me. For the first time a power stronger than mine was at work, and yet, things being as they were, my hope of getting him back lay in her. What do you mean, the question spoke itself. Ennisly's lips felt cold and stiff. Her hands, nervously clasped in her lap, were cold, too, though the shut-up room had but lately seemed as hot as a furnace. I mean, if the girl behaved as I thought she would behave, as I think you have behaved, he might grow tired of her and the cast iron coat of virtue he'd put on to please her. He might grow tired of life on a ranch, if his wife made him eat ashes and wear satcloth. That was my hope. Well, I sent a messenger to find out how the land lay a few weeks ago. The Countess de Santiago, Ennisly exclaimed. He told you? No, I saw her. I—by accident—it really was an accident. I heard things. He doesn't know. I believe he doesn't know I was there. Perhaps that's just as well, perhaps not. But if I were you I'd tell him when the right time comes. The Countess wrote me she'd had her journey in vain and why. She said, spitefully it struck me, that Don was bewitched by his wife, a cold, cruel creature with ice in her veins, who treated him like a dog. She said that to you, too? Yes, she said that to me. She seemed to gather the impression, but the dog stuck to his kennel. Nothing she could do would tempt him to budge. So I decided to call here myself on the way back from Mexico. I couldn't delay the trip. A man was waiting for me, and waiting quietly is difficult in Mexico just now. I got what I wanted and crammed the lot into this bag, which cost me, at the outside, if I remember, five dollars. A good idea of mine for putting thieves off the track. They expect sane men to carry nightgowns and newspapers in such bags. I thought I'd managed so well that I'd put the gang who follow me about, generally, on spec off the track. I speak Spanish well. I've been passing for a Mexican lawyer from Chihuahua. But today I caught a look from a pair of eyes in a train. I fancied I'd seen those eyes before and the rest of the features. Perhaps I imagined it, but I don't think so. I trust my instinct. I advise you to. It's a tip. In El Paso I bought a ticket for Albuquerque. The eyes were behind me. I got into the train, so did eyes, and a friend with a long nose. Not into my car, however, so I was able to skip out again as the train was starting. Not a bad feat for a man of my age. I hope eyes and nose and any other features that might have been with them traveled on unsuspectingly. But I can't be sure. Instinct says they saw my trick and trumped it. I oughten to have come here, bringing danger to your house, Mrs. Donaldson. But I want to see Don, and I know he is afraid neither of man nor devil, afraid of nothing in the world except one woman. As for her, well, what I'd heard hadn't prepossessed me in her favor. I sacrificed her for the safety of my golden images and my talk with Don. But the sound of your voice behind the shut door broke the picture I'd made of that young woman. And when I saw you, well, Mrs. Donaldson, I've already told you I don't intend to exert my influence over your husband, though to do so was my principal object in coming. Even if I did, I believe yours would prove stronger. But if I could count on all my old power over him, I wouldn't use it now I have seen you. I adore myself and my specialties. But there must be an unselfish streak in me which shows in moments like this. I respect and admire it. You may treat Don like a dog, but he'd never be happy away from you. And I am fool enough to want him to be happy. This kicked dog of yours, madam, happens to be the finest fellow I ever knew or expect to know. You say I treat him like a dog, cried annously, roused to anger. But how odd I to treat him! He came into my life in a way I thought romantic as a fairytale. It was a trick. A play got up to deceive me. I knew nothing of his life, but because of the faith he inspired I believed in him. No one except himself could have broken that belief. I would not have listened to a word against him. But when he thought I'd discovered something, the whole story came out. If I hadn't loved him so much to begin with, and put him on such a high pedestal, the fall wouldn't have been so great, wouldn't have broken my heart in pieces. But Don gave up everything pleasant in his life, and came down here to this God-forsaken ranch, a man like Michael Donaldson, with a few hundred dollars where he'd had thousands, all for you, said Van Vryk, and he said no thought except for you and the ranch for more than a year. Yet apparently you haven't changed your opinion. By Jove, madam, you must, somehow, through your personality and God knows what besides have got a mighty hold on his heart, in the days when you loved him, or he wouldn't have stood this dog's life, this punishment too harsh for human nature to bear. Good Lord, how were you brought up? Evidently not as a Christian. My father was a clergyman, said Annasly. There are many clergymen who have got as far from the light as the moon from the earth. I know more about Christianity myself than some of these narrow men with their cold Christs entangled trinities. That is, I know all this on principle. I don't practice what I know, but that's my affair. Did Don ever excuse himself by mentioning the influence I brought to bear on him when he was almost a boy? No, breathed Annasly. He didn't excuse himself at all except to tell me about his father and mother, and a vow he'd made to revenge them on society. It was like him not to whine for your forgiveness. He would never whine, the girl agreed, but she remembered that night of confession when on his knees he had begged her to forgive, to grant him another chance and she had refused. He had never asked again, and he had struggled alone for redemption. I haven't forgotten some early teachings which impressed me, said Paul VanVerek. Christ made a remark about forgiving till seventy times seven. Did you forgive Donaldson four hundred and eighty-nine times and draw the line at the four hundred and ninetyth? No, I never had anything to forgive him till that one thing came out. But it was a very big thing. Too big. Too big, eh? There was another saying of Christ about those without sin throwing the first stone. Of course I'm sure you were without sin, but you look as if you might have had a heart, once. Oh, I had, I had! Tears streamed down Annasly's pale face, and she did not wipe them away. It's dead now, I think. Think again. Think of what the man is, what he's proved himself to be. He's twice as good now as one of your best saints of the church. He's purified by fire. You've got the face of an angel, Mrs. Donaldson, but in my opinion you're a wicked woman, unworthy of the love you've inspired. You speak to me cruelly, the girl said through her tears. I've been very unhappy. Not as unhappy as you've made dawn by your cruelty. Good heavens these tender girls can be more cruel when they set about punishing us than the hardest man. And to punish a fellow like that, by making him live in an ice-house, when you could have done anything with him by a little kindness. Don't I know that? I'm the sponsor for such sins as Don's committed. He was meant to be straight. But I got a hold of him through an agent, and caught his imagination when that wild vow was freshly branded on his heart or brain. I have the gift of fascination, Mrs. Donaldson. I know that better than I know most things. You feel it tonight, or you wouldn't sit there letting me tear your heart to pieces, what's left of your heart? And I have an idea there's a good deal more than you think, if you have the sense to patch the bits together. I have fascination and I've cultivated it. Napoleon himself didn't study more ardently than I, the art of winning men. I won dawn. I appealed to the romance in him. I became his hero, and slowly I was able to make him my servant. Not much of my money or anything else has ever stuck to his hands. He's too generous, too impulsive. Though I taught him it was necessary to control his impulses. What he did he did for love of me till you came along and lit another sort of fire in his blood. I saw in one minute when he called on me what had happened to his soul. It's taken you more than a year to see, though he's lived for you and would have died for you. Great heaven, young woman! You ought to be on your knees before a miracle of God! Instead you've mounted a marble pedestal and worshiped your own security. Anisley bowed her head under a wave of shame. This man of all others had shown her a vision of herself as she was. It seemed that she could never lift her eyes. But suddenly into the crying of the wind a shot broke sharply, then another and another, till the sobbing wail was lost in a crackling fuselage. The girl leaped to her feet. Raiders, she gasped, or else Paul Fenverich sprang up also, his face paler, his eyes brighter than before. They've come after me, he said, clever trick if they've bribed ruffians from over the border to cover their ends. The real errands here inside this house. Anisley's heart faltered. You must hide, she breathed. I must save you somehow. Why should you save me? Fenverich asked sharply. Why not think about saving yourself? Because I know Knight would wish to save you, she answered. I want to do what he would do. God help us, they're coming nearer. Take your bag, and I'll hide you in the cellar. There's a corner here behind some barrels. If they break in I'll say, brave girl, but they won't break in. How do you know? Your husband won't let them. Trust him as I do. He's not here. Do you think I told you a lie? Think Heaven he isn't here or they'd kill him, and I could never beg him to forgive. She covered her face with her hands. The old man looked at her gravely. You don't understand what's happening, he said, with a new gentleness. Don's out there now defending you and his home. That's what the shooting means. Do you think those brutes would advertise themselves with their guns if they hadn't been attacked? With a cry the girl rushed to the long window and began to unfasten it, but Van Vrecht caught her hands. Stop, he commanded. Don't play the robber's own game for them. How do you know which is nearer the house, Don and his men, or the others? She stared at him, panting, Don and his men? She echoed. Yes. Even if he were alone to begin with, I'll bet all I've got he roused every cow-puncher on the ranch with his first shot, and they'd be out with their guns like a streak of greased lightning. If you opened that window with a light in the room, the wrong lot may get in and barricade themselves against Don and his bunch, to say nothing of what would happen to us. But, anisly waited for no more. She ran to the table and blew out the flame of the green shaded lamp. Black darkness shut down like the lid of a box. But she knew the room as she knew her own features. Straight and unerring she found her way back to the window. This time Van Vrecht stood still while she opened it and began noiselessly to undo the outside wooden shutters. As she pushed them apart against the wind, a spray of sand dashed into her face and Van Vrecht's, stinging their eyelids. But disregarding the pain the two passed out into the night. Clouds of blowing sand hid the stars, yet there was a faint glimmer of light which showed moving figures on horseback. Men were shouting, and with the bark of their guns, fire spouted. Anisly rushed onto the veranda that Van Vrecht caught her dress. Stay where you are, he ordered. Our side is winning. Don't you see? Don't you hear? The fight's going farther away. That means the raids failed. The skunks have got the worst of it. They're trying to get back to the river and across to their own country. There'll be some, I bet, who'll never see Mexico again. But night, the girl faltered, he may be shot. He may. We've got to take the chances and hope for the best. He wouldn't leave the chase now if every door and window were open and lit for him. Wait. Watch. That's the only thing to do. She yielded to the detaining hand. All strength had gone out of her. She staggered a little and fell back against Van Vrecht's shoulder. He held her up strongly as though he had been a young man. How could I live through it, she moaned. You care for him after all, then? She heard the calm voice asking in her ear. And she heard her own voice answer, I love him more than ever. She knew that it was true in spite of everything and that she had never ceased to love him. It would be joy to give her life to save nights with just one moment of breath to tell him that his atonement had not been vain. A way out of sight the chase went, but the watching eyes had time to see that not all the figures were on horseback. Some ran on foot, and some horses were riderless. As Van Vrecht had said, there was nothing for him and for anisly to do except to wait. They stood silent in the rain of sand, listening when there was nothing more to see. The shots were scattered and blurred by distance. Anisly realized how a heart may stop beating in the anguish of suspense. But at last, when the fierce wind, purring like a tiger, was the only sound in the night, there came a sudden padding of feet. A form stumbled up the veranda steps, and before she could cry out in her surprise the girl recognized their Chinese servant. She had fancied him in bed, but she might have known he would be out. He had been running so fast that his breath came chokingly. What is it, Anisly implored. The boy pointed, trying to speak. Bling Miss Donald back, he gulped, may come tell. Anisly pushed past him, and springing down the steps ran blindly through the sound cloud, taking the way by which the Chinese boy must have come home. Her mind pictured a procession carrying a dead man, or one grievously wounded, but at the cactus-head she came upon three men, one in the center who limped, two who supported him on either side. Why, Anita, exclaimed her husband's voice. Night, she sobbed, it was the first time since Easter a year ago that she had given him the old name. Thank God you're alive! If you thank him so do I, he answered, whether lightly or gravely she could not tell. His tone was controlled as if to hide pain. It's all right. You mustn't worry any more. Wish I could have sent you news sooner. I hoped you'd guess we were getting the upper hand when the shots died away. Coming home I spotted the sneaks forting the river. I turned the car and stirred up the boys. Then we had a shindy and scared the dogs cold. Bagged a few, but I guess nobody croaked. Anyhow none of our crowd. Half a dozen are after the curse. As for me, I felt as if I'd got a dumb-dumb in my ankle. But I'll be fit as a fiddle in a week or two. I'm afraid you had a fright. How strange it was to hear him speak so coolly after what she had endured. But his calmness quieted her. Mr. Van Vrek was with me, she said. Van Vrek! Great Scott! Then the raid was a frame-up. I see. Boys, let's get along to the house, quick. Wait an instant, the girl intervened. Night I never had a chance to tell you about the cactus blossoms. I understood. I understand even better now. Mr. Van Vrek has made me understand. That is all I can tell you. Let them help you to the house. I'll follow. Some other time I'll explain. No, now, he said, let go a minute, boys. I can stand by myself. Three words with my wife. As the two men moved off hastily, annously sprang forward, giving her shoulder for her husband's support. Lean on me, she said. Oh, Knight, you don't need an explanation, for the three words are love, love and forgiveness, forgiveness from you to me. He held out his arms and caught her too infirsely. Neither could speak. The past was forgotten, only the present and future counted. Both the man and woman had atoned. The End Chapter 26 The End of the Second Latch Key by Charles Norris and Alice Muriel Williamson