arked.

Valencia laid down her knife and fork as she looked at him. "Let's offer
a reward for Pablo and Sebastian--say, a hundred dollars. That would
bring us news of them."

"You're right," he agreed. "I'll get bills out this afternoon. Perhaps
I'd better say no incriminating questions will be asked of those giving
us information."

Stirred to activity by the promise of such large rewards, not only the
sheriff's office and the police, but also private parties scoured the
neighboring country for traces of the missing man or his captors. Every
available horse in town was called into service for the man-hunt. Others
became sleuths on foot and searched cellars and empty houses for the
body of the man supposed to have been murdered. Never in its history had
so much suspicion among neighbors developed in the old-town. Many who
could not possibly be connected with the crime were watched jealously
lest they snap up one of the rewards by stumbling upon evidence that had
been overlooked.

False clews in abundance were brought to Davis and Pesquiera. Good
citizens came in with theories that lacked entirely the backing of any
evidence. One of these was that a flying machine had descended in the
darkness and that Gordon had been carried away by a friend to avoid the
payment of debts he was alleged to owe. The author of this explanation
was a stout old lady of militant appearance who carried a cotton
umbrella large enough to cover a family. She was extraordinarily
persistent and left in great indignation to see a lawyer because Davis
would not pay her the reward.

That day and the next passed with the mystery still unsolved. Valencia
continued to stay at the hotel instead of opening the family town house,
probably because she had brought no servants with her from the valley
and did not know how long she would remain in the city. She and Manuel
called upon the Underwoods to hear Kate's story, but from it they
gathered nothing new. Mrs. Underwood welcomed them with the gentle
kindness that characterized her, but Kate was formal and distant.

"She doesn't like me," Valencia told her cousin as soon as they had
left. "I wonder why. We were good enough friends as children."

Manuel said nothing. He stroked his little black mustache with the
foreign manner he had inherited. If he had cared to do so perhaps he
could have explained Kate Underwood's stiffness. Partly it was
embarrassment and partly shyness. He knew that there had been