ruck it with the butt of his rifle.

"You, in there," he said in a menacing voice, "-- you listen once to
_me!_ You open your door and come out. I give you one minute!" He
struck the door again: "_One_ minute, senorita! -- or I cut from your
frien', here, the hand from his right arm!"

There was a deathly silence. Then the sound of bolts. The door opened.
Slowly the girl limped forward, still wearing the hunting jacket over
her night-dress.

Quintana made her an elaborate and ironical bow, slouch hat in hand;
another masked man took her rifle.

"Senorita," said Quintana with another sweep of his hat, "I ask pardon
that I trouble you for my packet of which your father has rob me for
ver' long time."

Slowly the girl lifted her blue eyes to Stormont. He was standing
between two masked men. Their pistols were pressed slightly against his
stomach.

Stormont reddened painfully:

"It was not for myself that I let you open your door," he said. "They
would not have ventured to lay hands on _me._"

"Ah," said Quintana with a terrifying smile, "you would not have been
the first gendarme who had -- _accorded me his hand!_"

Two of the masked men laughed loudly.

* * * * *

Outside in the rag-weed patch, Smith rose, stole across the grass to the
kitchen door and slipped inside.

"Now, senorita," said Quintana gaily, "my packet, if you please, -- and
we leave you to the caresses of your faithful gendarme, -- who should
thank God that he still possesses the good two hands to fondle you!
Allons! Come then! My packet!"

One of the masked men said: "Take her downstairs and lock her up
somewhere or she'll shoot us from her window."

"Lead out that gendarme, too!" added Quintana, grasping Eve by the arm.

Down the stairs tramped the men, forcing their prisoners with them.

In the big kitchen the glare from the burning out-house fell dimly; the
place was full of shadows.

"Now," said Quintana, "I take my property and my leave. Where is the
packet hidden?"

She stood for a moment with drooping head, amid the sombre shadows,
then, slowly, she drew the emblazoned morocco case form her breast
pocket.

What followed occurred in the twinkling of an eye: for, as Quintana
extended his arm to grasp the case, a hand snatched it, a masked figure
sprang through the doorway, and ran toward the barn.

Somebody recognized the hat and red bandanna:

"Salzar!" he yelled. "Nick Salzar!"

"A traitor, by God!" shouted