FROM the observatory high up among the hills, Mr. Robles had witnessed the arrest and the departure of the prisoner. He had understood every move just as if he had been present on the verandah down below and had heard each spoken word.

As he stood erect, his hand still rested on the telescope. For a few moments he pondered, then murmured to himself as he turned to leave the room: “A bad complication! I must break the news tonight to Merle. Poor little girl!”

But it was two hours later before he wended his way down through the moonlit forest in the direction of La Siesta.

There dinner was over. No word of untoward happenings had as yet come from the outside world to disturb the tranquillity of the little household. In the drawing room Merle was at the piano, while Grace, close by, was curled on a sofa reading the latest novel. At some distance from the young girls was Mrs. Darlington, occupied intermittently over a piece of embroidery.

She was seated in semi-darkness, only her hands and her work illumed by the soft pink radiance of a shaded lamp resting on a little table by her side. In the evening costume of the chatelaine of La Siesta was the suggestion of old lace and old-time lavender—the old lace at her bosom and around her neck, the subtle fragrance of lavender exhaled from her garments that gave to her a sort of personal atmosphere. And as she sat musingly, with the skeins of silk passing through her fingers, she might have formed a picture of some Penelope seated at the loom of pensive memory.

The music from the piano was in harmony with both her mood and her attitude—the soft dreamy melodies of Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words” to which she was vaguely listening while busy with her thoughts and her stitches.

Downstairs amid the oriental luxuriousness of the cosy corner sat Tia Teresa, waiting in the dark to intercept the visitor of whose coming she had been apprized by a secret messenger. And at last Ricardo Robles came, with the noiseless footfall that was characteristic of the man and imparted to him an air of mystery. He was standing by the old duenna’s side before she had realized his presence.

“I wanted a few words with you first of all, Tia Teresa,” he murmured, as she grasped his hand in both her own and affectionately kissed it. “Something has happened.”

“I know what has happened, Don Manuel,” she whispered. “The young man deserved his fate, for I am sure you saw what occurred in the rose garden during the afternoon. For one of his breed to have dared even to touch my little girl!” She hissed the words venomously, then added in calmer tone: “So all is well. He brought down his doom upon his own head, and vengeance for Rosetta begins.”

Robles pressed her hand as he disengaged his own from her almost fiercely caressing touch.

“I nursed you both,” continued the duenna in a low impassioned voice. “Your people were my people, you children were my very life, and your revenge has come to be my own. So I rejoice that the young ruffian died.”

He had seated himself by her side on the divan. “We shall say no more then about that,” he responded. “In some ways I am sorry over the day’s work. At times I find it difficult to reconcile my firmness with my softness.”

“But you cannot forget that you are no longer the owner of your father’s lands and flocks, and are virtually childless besides.” She breathed the words with intense repressed fury, intensified as she added: “And all through the accursed gringo who wrecked our happy lives—Rosetta’s, yours, your beloved parents’ as well. While that abominable wretch lives, the vendetta can never end.”

For a moment Robles remained silent. Then he spoke resolutely:

“I know it, Tia Teresa. Today my work only begins. Rest assured that it will be carried to the bitter finish. For this I have waited all through those long years. But I wanted to tell you of another matter—to warn you of a very serious complication. Dick Willoughby has been arrested for the slaying of Marshall Thurston.” The duenna sat bolt upright in shocked surprise. “Oh, my! What will this mean?” she murmured.

“Terrible grief for my little girl—possibly much suffering for him until I choose to take the responsibility upon myself.”

“You must not do that.”

“No. Not yet, at all events. Or the victory will be his—my enemy’s.”

He mused again. She, too, remained silent. At last he broke the spell.

“But I have already devised measures for his safety. Now I must go upstairs. They have heard nothing yet?”

“Not a word.”

“Then I must tell them of the mysterious shooting in the woods, and at the same time reassure Merle that her lover is in no real danger.”

“And Mrs. Darlington?” asked Tia Teresa. “How much is she to know?”

“Nothing! The vendetta is for us Spaniards. It is ours and ours alone. No one knows of my vow but you and I. Let it remain so. Adios, my dear friend.”

In the darkness he stooped and kissed her on both cheeks. For a moment she clung to him, but he gently liberated himself from her embrace. He moved toward the stairway, and Tia Teresa followed him cautiously up to the drawing room door, outside of which she remained. Knowing that she was there, he left the door ajar. The soft music was still playing, but suddenly ceased when Robles advanced into the apartment.

“My word, but this is an unexpected pleasure,” exclaimed Merle, as she came from the piano with outstretched hands.

He took them both in his own, and bestowed on her a grave but kindly smile. He also nodded to Grace, who had dropped her book and risen in courteous greeting.

“But you look sad and serious,” Merle went on, with quick intuition that his coming at this late hour meant something more than a mere neighborly visit.

“Something sad and serious has happened,” he replied.

Mrs. Darlington had advanced from her lamp-lit table.

“What?” she enquired eagerly. “Somehow I had a sense of impending trouble all day long.”

“Young Thurston of the rancho has met with an accident.”

“Dead?” gasped Merle, her hands clasped against her bosom.

“Yes, dead, I am afraid. He was mysteriously shot this afternoon when riding through the pine woods.”

Merle was stricken dumb. Grace glided to her side and listened in silent expectancy.

“Shot! By whom?” asked Mrs. Darlington.

“That I cannot tell,” gravely replied Robles. Then he smiled faintly. “But an amazingly stupid blunder has been made. By some combination of circumstances suspicion is being fastened on our dear friend Dick Willoughby.”

“Dick!” exclaimed Merle. “Who dares to suggest such a thing?” she added indignantly.

“I infer that Mr. Thurston is his accuser,” replied Robles.

“The two young men quarreled,” murmured Mrs. Darlington, in a voice of deep agitation.

“Mother!” cried Merle reprovingly. “Even to think for one moment that Dick, whatever the provocation, could have done such a thing! He is absolutely innocent, Mr. Robles,” she went on decisively, again turning to their visitor.

“Of course he is innocent—absolutely innocent. No one knows that better than myself.” And he gave an enigmatic smile as he spoke the words of reassuring confidence.

“Where is Mr. Willoughby now?” queried Grace.

“He has been compelled to go to Bakersfield.”

“To Bakersfield?” exclaimed Merle, half wonderingly.

“There to prove his innocence,” replied Robles.

But Mrs. Darlington had probed the real significance of his words.

“You don’t mean to say that they have—arrested him?”

Robles nodded gravely. “That’s how the law acts. A man under suspicion must be taken into custody—he must be charged so that he can refute the shameful calumny.”

Merle had dropped into a settee—white and speechless. Her lips trembled. Then she burst into a passion of weeping, burying her face against an arm flung across the upholstery.

Mrs. Darlington moved forward quickly to comfort the sobbing girl.

“Oh, don’t take on like this, my dear child. The arrest was a mere formality. He will be immediately set at liberty.”

Merle raised her tear-stained face. She spoke in gulping sobs.

“But, mother, I never told you—I shrank from telling any of you. While you and Grace were away this afternoon, Marshall Thurston called and wanted to make love to me—he even dared to try to kiss me. Tia Teresa flung him out of the rose garden. It was I who made Tia Teresa promise to say nothing about it to anyone. I feared trouble. And, oh, trouble, terrible trouble, has already come.” Again she bowed her head and continued weeping, but quietly weeping now. Grace was bending over her, patting her shoulder in soothing sympathy.

Mrs. Darlington’s eyes met those of Robles.

“This may prove serious,” she said softly, that Merle might not overhear.

“It is decidedly unfortunate,” replied Robles; “an unfortunate complication that may, of course, strengthen the suspicion against Willoughby and so render it more difficult for us to help him.”

Merle sprang to her feet, and with a hand dashed away her tears.

“Suspicion!” she exclaimed. “There can be not one moment’s suspicion.” And she gazed up into Robles’ face in ardent appeal.

“Of course not, my dear, among us—among all those who know Dick Willoughby. But there is the harshly judging world to reckon with besides. They may say that this discloses a motive for the crime.”

“However, Merle has just told us,” commented Mrs. Darlington, “that only she and Tia Teresa know anything about this unhappy episode in the rose garden. Mr. Willoughby has not been here at all today.”

“But I happen to know that he was not far away this afternoon—that he was rounding up some cattle in the near-by canyons. Malice may suggest that he was a witness of Thurston’s insolent behavior.”

“Then we should all keep silent on the subject.”

“Which might be compromising in the long run, my dear Mrs. Darlington. Altogether it is a difficult situation.”

Merle had been hardly listening to this conversation. She had been thinking, and with thinking had regained her composure. Her mind was quickly made up as to the line of prompt action that must be taken. She spoke quite calmly now.

“He is in prison. You have not spoken the word, Mr. Robles, but I know the truth all the same. We shall go to him tonight.”

“Not tonight, my dear,” replied Robles, with gentle firmness. “But tomorrow morning, certainly, I would suggest that you drive over to Bakersfield. He will appreciate your kindness in paying him this prompt visit, and you can at the same time convey to him my message of absolute belief in his innocence.”

“You will not come, too?”

“I can do more for him, Merle, by not going to Bakersfield for the present. Do not forget that for reasons of my own I live in seclusion. My name must be mentioned to no one but Mr. Willoughby. Trust me, all three of you, and leave me to work quietly alone and by my own methods. There, I give my promise. The captive will be set free within a short time. My hand on that, and you know that I never break my word.”

There was a joyous smile of confidence on his face as he spoke the words. Merle took the extended hand gratefully, trustfully, and pressed it to her lips. Robles went on:

“My advice is—try to sleep tonight. Tomorrow, or within a few brief tomorrows, all will be well. Good night.”

Tia Teresa followed him from the open door down into the outer hall.

“You heard everything,” he said as he paused to speak a final word of parting. “Comfort her, but at the same time guard our secret closer than ever. Not one hair of Willoughby’s head will be touched—make her know that for certain. And everything will come right in a very little time.”

“My poor little girl,” he murmured to himself as he strode down the silent tree-shadowed avenue.