ON the morning after the exciting episode at La Siesta, Chester Munson was in the library of Mr. Robles’ home ready for his day’s duties. But he was in no mood for the routine work of cataloging and classifying the volumes on the bookshelves. Up to now the task had been one of absorbing interest, for Munson, although not a scholar, had always been fond of reading, and it was a treat to dip at times into the contents of the rare and curious works which wealth and the educated taste of a true bibliophile had accumulated.

But today the amateur librarian was thinking of other things. He was feverishly awaiting the usual morning visit of his employer, so that he might tell him the story of the previous night’s happenings. At last Mr. Robles made his appearance, and gave his usual quiet greetings.

“I see you are making great progress with your work,” he remarked, glancing at the pile of classified volumes resting temporarily on the library table.

“Oh, I’m getting along,” replied Munson. “But I have most surprising news for you, Mr. Robles.”

“Indeed?” The recluse arched his eyebrows in expectant curiosity as he took a chair beside the desk at which Munson had been seated. “Sit down, please. Let me hear the story.”

“You know that I was at La Siesta yesterday evening?”

“I know that you are very often there,” replied Mr. Robles, smiling. “I understand the attraction and congratulate you on your good fortune. Grace Darlington is certainly a charming young lady.”

Munson flushed and bowed his acquiescence in the compliment as he said:

“It was not of her, however, that I was going to speak. I want to say to you, Mr. Robles, that Miss Farnsworth did one of the bravest and cleverest things imaginable last evening.”

“Tell me about it. I am all attention.” Munson then proceeded to relate in full detail the events of the preceding evening—the surprise visit of Ben Thurston, the brutality of the man, the quick wit of Merle, the escape of Dick Willoughby, and his final message by Tia Teresa that he was safe and, in obedience to Merle’s injunction, was returning to his place of hiding. During the narrative only once did the listener betray emotion; when Thurston’s rude insults were repeated there came a flash into Robles’ eyes, and he clenched his hands to restrain his indignation. But he interrupted with no word, and at the end spoke no comment.

Munson was a little taken aback at this silence and impassivity.

“My story does not seem to surprise you?” he remarked, with a note of interrogation.

“No,” was the quiet reply, “I already knew it.”

“How?” exclaimed Munson, wonderingly.

“You have forgotten, young man, that there is a private telephone between my home here and La Siesta. Mrs. Darlington has already told me about the matter. But I am pleased to have your version, and delighted more than I can tell to know that Merle proved equal to the emergency—that it was she who may be truly said to have saved Dick Willoughby.” There was a ring of pride and admiration in his voice as he spoke the words.

“She’s the real stuff,” cried Munson, enthusiastically.

“It was well done,” continued Mr. Robles, his tone taking a graver note. “For I want to warn you, Munson, as Willoughby’s closest friend, that Ben Thurston or one of his hired assassins will certainly shoot on sight the instant they get the chance to do so. But by the Lord, if anything like that happens, I will hang that villain Thurston to the highest tree in Tejon for the buzzards to pick his bones.” And the upraised hand, the voice vibrating with passionate determination, showed that Ricardo Robles meant just what he said.

Mr. Robles had risen to his feet. For a moment he turned his face away. Then he again spoke, but now in his customary, sedate manner.

“This morning, Mr. Munson, I leave home for a few days. Go on with your work, of course, but remember that it is quite a minor consideration. During my absence I shall rely on you to see that Ben Thurston, on any pretence of searching for Willoughby, does not cross my door.”

“He shall never do that, so long as I’m here,” declared the young army man, with quiet confidence.

“I don’t think he will, either,” replied Robles. “I have given orders for him to be shot down,” he added grimly, “if he should dare to approach my gates. But I’ll count on you all the same as a second guard to the sanctity of my home.”

“You may count on me to the death,” responded Munson, extending his hand.

“I know it, and therefore I go away on a necessary duty with an easy mind. But I have good news for you, Munson. I have instructed Sing Ling to prepare luncheon for the ladies of La Siesta every day they choose to come. So, while I prefer you to remain here on guard while I am gone, you need not be lonely. Perhaps you’ll hardly wish me to come back again,” he added with a smile.

“Oh, don’t say that. But you’re mighty kind thinking of such things at all.”

“Well, you may expect our friends today about one o’clock. Now, goodbye—but not for long.”

The library work proceeded but slowly during the hours that followed. Munson was all impatience now for Grace and Merle to arrive. Books were of little account, for there was none ever printed that could rival for him the charm of a certain pair of laughing blue eyes. And it was a self-confessed pseudo man-of-letters who at last rushed to the gateway to greet the fair visitors.

“Mother couldn’t come,” cried Grace, as she jumped from her horse and flung the bridle to a Mexican groom. “She’s putting up fruit with Tia Teresa, and I think she really believes everything would go wrong if she didn’t superintend.”

Munson, as he led the girls through the arched gateway, was inclined to bless both the fruit and the fallacy.

Sing Ling came across the patio with a welcoming smile.

“Dinnel all leady,” he announced in tinkling syllables.

“And we’re all ready, too, Sing Ling,” laughed Merle, as she went up and shook the Chinaman’s hand.

“Me vely glad to see you again, missie.”

“I didn’t know you were old friends,” exclaimed Munson, in some surprise.

“Oh, didn’t you? Sing Ling has been Mr. Robles’ cook off and on for nearly twenty years. When Mr. Robles is abroad of course he works elsewhere. That’s why you found him at San Antonio Rancho.”

“But Dick told me he was his cook—had been for several years.”

“With Mr. Robles’ tacit consent, then,” replied Merle.

The Chinaman was grinning in a vacuous sort of way, as if all the conversation was so much Greek to him.

“Sing Ling, you scamp,” cried Munson, “I begin to understand now how Mr. Robles comes to know so much about Dick and myself. You’ve been telling tales out of school.”

“Oh, no; me cookee allee time; me no go school,” replied the Celestial, in guileless incomprehension.

After the dainty luncheon, Merle proposed that they should visit the watch tower. There they found the Mexican lad on duty. He had been strumming a guitar to pass the time, but at the sound of voices had sprung erect and alert. Munson noticed at a glance that the big telescope was ready trained on San Antonio Rancho.

“Como estas, Francisco?” asked Merle, addressing the boy in Spanish.

“Bien, gracias, senorita,” he replied, with a deferential bow. But he averted his glance instantly, and gazed out on the landscape.

Merle turned to Munson: “We are not allowed to converse with the servants here,” she explained. “Just a word of greeting—that is all.”

“I’m under similar orders,” replied Munson. “Not that it much matters in my case, for I haven’t your accomplishment of knowing the Spanish language.”

“Oh, Grace and I speak Spanish almost as well as English. You see, Mr. Robles, who has always been interested in us two girls, insisted that we should be taught his native tongue.”

“And we’ve been all over Spain, too,” interposed Grace. “Lived there a whole year. That’s where I fell in love with the violin and took my first lessons.”

“An inspiring country obviously,” remarked Munson with a flattering gesture.

“Thank you for the subtle compliment,” laughed Grace, tossing the vagrant, wind-blown curls from her face.

“I never come here but I love to gaze at the view,” observed Merle. “Is it not glorious—this valley of Tehachapi?”

It was indeed a glorious scene—that noble sweep of verdured plain, stretching north far as the eye could reach, on the south guarded by the rugged pass, east and west embosoming hills twenty miles apart etching the sky with peaks and domes and lines of beauty. For a few moments all three visitors to the tower remained silent and enraptured.

Grace was the one to break the spell.

“I’m going down now to the library to inspect your work, lieutenant,” she announced with a roguish smile.

“Spare me,” protested Munson. “But perhaps you would help me with some of those Spanish books,” he added as an afterthought.

“Delighted! Come along.” And she led the way down the winding iron staircase.

In the library the three were for the first time during the visit quite alone. Munson carefully closed the door.

“Now I’ve got the chance, Miss Merle,” he began, “I want to compliment you on your splendid bravery last night.”

“Bravery!” she laughed. “Why I was so scared I could hardly stand.”

“Well, you deceived us all finely, then.”

“And that Ben Thurston—what an old ruffian!” cried Grace. “But I agree with you, Mr. Munson; Merle was a hero.”

“A heroine,” suggested the lieutenant.

“Oh, in these days we don’t make such fine sex distinctions,” laughed Grace. “A real hero, that’s what I call her.”

“Rubbish,” protested Merle. “I just did what anyone else would have done in the circumstances.”

“I’m afraid men are not so ready of wit in an emergency as are women,” remarked Munson.

“Just listen to that, Merle,” exclaimed Grace. “I verily believe the lieutenant is a suffragette.”

“A suffragist,” corrected Munson, emphatically this time. “I’m hanged if I’m going to wear a petticoat even if the women are determined to don—the other things.”

They all laughed merrily.

Grace turned and began examining the carefully written library cards.

“Any more news from Mr. Willoughby?” asked Merle, with a look of solicitude in her eyes.

“Nothing,” replied Munson. “But I’m beginning to put two and two together,” he continued. “Early every morning a horseman comes down here from the mountains and evidently brings a report of some kind to Mr. Robles. And when he rides off again Sing Ling has always ready a basket of grub, all sorts of nice things, fried chicken, spiced beef—”

“Sounds quite epicurean,” interrupted Grace, tossing away the card she had been pretending to examine.

“Yes, hang it all—just the little delicacies Dick used to like.”

“I never knew you fared so bountifully at San Antonio Rancho,” remarked Merle with a smile.

“Oh, Dick’s no candy kid, as you know well,” replied Munson. “It was mostly rough and ready fare all right, but Sing Ling had a knack of adding a few dainty trifles to our meals, and it strikes me that for the purposes of this mysterious and capacious lunch basket he is trying to excel himself.”

“No doubt it goes to Mr. Willoughby,” said Merle. “Well, I’m real glad to know that they are making him comfortable.”

“I guess, though, he’ll miss his occasional visits to La Siesta. Mr. Robles says you were quite right, Miss Merle. Dick is in real danger. Those gunmen of old Thurston have orders to shoot him on sight.”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Merle. “Oh, I’m so thankful he got away. Even though we miss seeing him, he must never run such a risk again.”

“It is all very mysterious,” said Munson, in a musing tone. “And I had no idea, too, that this was such a lovely place. Mr. Robles has taken me around several times. He has the choicest dairy cattle, the finest blooded horses, rare trees and plants from every corner of the world.”

“These are his hobbies,” commented Merle.

“He says he wants to give me some practical lessons in estate management.”

“Why?” asked Grace.

“Well,” laughed Munson, “he thinks I may some day own a rancho of my own. But that will be a mighty long time.”

“Who can tell?” said Merle, glancing mischievously from the lieutenant to Grace. “Even in these humdrum days soldiers have been known to come in and conquer.”

Grace blushed crimson.

“Merle, how dare you?” she exclaimed, half angry, half laughing. “Next time we visit you, Mr. Munson, I’ll have to bring along Tia Teresa.”

“Oh, dear Aunt Teresa has a soft side for the lieutenant,” retorted Merle, with merry audacity.

But Grace had recovered from her momentary confusion.

“Then I’ll help you all I can, Mr. Munson, with dear Aunt Teresa,” she laughingly said. “We’ll send her along tomorrow instead of coming ourselves.”

“Heaven forbid!” murmured the lieutenant, with pious fervor. He, too, had been looking and feeling awkward.

“So we’ll say goodbye for the present,” continued Grace, frankly extending her hand.

“I hope I haven’t said anything to offend you,” stammered Munson.

“It is perhaps what you haven’t said that is the cause of trouble,” laughed the irrepressible Merle.

But Grace had fled from the room, and as the others followed, Merle went on:

“I said when we left home that two would be company but three—a complication. Wasn’t I right, lieutenant?”

“You are always right,” murmured Munson, too bewildered to think of anything else but the obvious gallant reply.

He stood at the gateway watching the two young ladies as they cantered away. At the bend of the road Merle turned round in the saddle and waved her hand. But Grace rode steadily on.

“By jove, that’s as good as telling me that I can sail in and win,” he said to himself. “Thank you, Merle, little girl. Next time Grace and I are alone, my fate will be sealed.”

But no one called again during Mr. Robles’ absence—not even Tia Teresa.

It was toward evening a few days later when the recluse strolled into the library. Munson did not know that he had returned, and rose from his seat in some surprise.

“Still hard at work?” said Mr. Robles, as he nodded and shook hands.

“When did you get back, sir?”

“Last night. And today I have been busy with some important letters.”

“Any word of Dick?”

“There is nothing new so far as I am aware.”

“Mr. Robles, excuse me,” said Munson earnestly. “But I’m anxious on Dick’s account. You know of his whereabouts, of course?”

“I have indicated as much, although for the present I prefer to say nothing.”

“Well, when is he to be restored to liberty?”

“In due time. At latest he will be free on the eleventh of October.”

“Oh, that’s months ahead yet. But why the eleventh of October? You excite my curiosity.”

“The date is not of my choosing—it was fixed many years ago, by another than myself.”

The enigmatic reply puzzled Chester Munson—not only the words themselves, but the tremor of deep emotion in the voice of Ricardo Robles as he gave them utterance.