locked.
Someone was moving about just beyond the thick panel. He heard the
homely sound of dishes on a tray and waited, his hand on the doorknob,
meaning to push his way forward once the door was opened. But he heard
no other sound, though he waited minute after minute until perhaps half
an hour had dragged by. Then he sat on the edge of the tub, grown
stubborn, determined not to budge. And so another half hour passed.

An hour was a long time for Jim Kendric to sit or stand still and at
the end of it he began pacing up and down again; at first just in the
narrow confines of the bath, presently soft-footedly upon the soft
carpet of his room. And no sooner had he stepped a dozen paces from
the bathroom door than he heard a bolt shot back. He raced to the door
that had so long baffled him and threw it open. As he did so he heard
the outer hall door slam shut. When he laid hasty hands on it it was
barred again.

"Well, there's food, anyway," he muttered. And sat down.

Half way through his meal a thought struck him which gave little zest
to the rest of his food. He had walked silently when he left his post;
no one waiting in the room where the tray was could have heard him, he
felt sure. Then how did that person know the instant he stepped away?
He could not have been spied on through the keyhole of the door since
no keyhole was there; the fastening on the other side was simply that
of primitive bar. But that he had been spied on he was confident.
Well, why not? The house was old and no doubt had known no end of
intrigue in its time. The walls were thick enough for passageways
within them; an eye might be upon him all the time. He did not relish
the thought but refused to grow fanciful over it.

The afternoon he spent stoically accepting his condition. As he put it
to himself, the other fellow had the large, lovely bulge on the
situation. For the most part of the sultry afternoon he sat in
shirt-sleeved discomfort at his open window, staring out into the empty
gardens and wondering what the other dwellers of the old adobe house
were doing. Where were Bruce and Barlow and what lies was Zoraida
telling them? And where was Betty? He did not realize that his
wandering thoughts came back to Betty more often than to either of his
friends whom he had known so many years. But realization was forced
upon him that, despite all he had told both Zoraida and Ruiz Rios, he
did feel a very sincere interest in he