er under his arm
pit and hidden in the garden was a rifle. To be sure there were risks
to be run; but now, if ever, struck him as the time to run them.

If he could only find where Betty Gordon slept. He must give her a
word of hope before he left her here among these devils; assuring her
that he would return for her and bring the law with him. Or, if she
had the nerve and the desire to attempt escape with him now, that was
her right and he would go as far as a man could to bring her through to
safety. Noiselessly he crossed the room. He would pass through the
music room and down the hall toward the living quarters of the house.
If luck were with him he would find her.

It was only when he was about to pass out of the music room door going
to the hallway that he heard voices for the first time. They came from
a distance, dulled and deadened by the oak doors, but he knew them for
the voices of men, raised in anger. A louder word now and then brought
him recognition of Ruiz Rios's voice; a sharp answer might have been
from Escobar. He stopped and considered. If these men quarreled, how
would it affect him? Quarrel they would, soon or late, he knew. For
both were truculent and in the looks he had seen pass between them
there was no friendship. Two rebellious spirits held in check by the
will of Zoraida Castelmar. But now Zoraida was away.

Then for the moment he forgot them and his conjectures. He had heard a
faint sound and turning quickly saw for the first time that he was not
alone in the music room. In a dim corner beyond the piano was a
cushioned seat and on it, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes wide
with the sleeplessness and anxiety of the night, crouched Betty Gordon.
He took a quick step toward her. She drew back, pressed tight against
the wall, her look one of terror. Terror of him!

But he came on until he stood over her, looking down into her raised
face. He felt no end of pity for her, she looked so small and helpless
and hopeless. Big gray eyes pleaded with him and he read and
understood that she asked only that he go and leave her. An impulse
which was utterly new to him surged over him now, the impulse to gather
her up into his arms as one would a child and comfort her. Not that
she was just a child. She had done her shining brown hair high up on
her head; she fought wildly for an air of serene dignity; he judged her
at the last of her teens. But she was none the less flower-l