Part 53

Madeline could be gay, and she initiated the abandonment of dignity by calling Castleton into the pantry, and, while interesting him in some pretext or other, imprinting the outlines of her flour-covered hands upon the back of his black coat. Castleton innocently returned to the kitchen to be greeted with a roar. That surprising act of the hostess set the pace, and there followed a merry, noisy time. Everybody helped. The miscellaneous collection of dishes so confusingly contrived made up a dinner which they all heartily enjoyed. Madeline enjoyed it herself, even with the feeling of a sword hanging suspended over her.

The hour was late when she rose from the table and told her guests to go to their rooms, don their riding-clothes, pack what they needed for the long and adventurous camping trip that she hoped would be the climax of their Western experience, and to snatch a little sleep before the cowboys roused them for the early start.

Madeline went immediately to her room, and was getting out her camping apparel when a knock interrupted her. She thought Florence had come to help her pack. But this knock was upon the door opening out in the porch. It was repeated.

“Who’s there?” she questioned.

“Stewart,” came the reply.

She opened the door. He stood on the threshold. Beyond him, indistinct in the gloom, were several cowboys.

“May I speak to you?” he asked.

“Certainly.” She hesitated a moment, then asked him in and closed the door. “Is—is everything all right?”

“No. These bandits stick to cover pretty close. They must have found out we’re on the watch. But I’m sure we’ll get you and your friends away before anything starts. I wanted to tell you that I’ve talked with your servants. They were just scared. They’ll come back to-morrow, soon as Bill gets rid of this gang. You need not worry about them or your property.”

“Do you have any idea who is hiding in the house?”

“I was worried some at first. Pat Hawe acted queer. I imagined he’d discovered he was trailing bandits who might turn out to be his smuggling guerrilla cronies. But talking with your servants, finding a bunch of horses upon hidden down in the mesquite behind the pond—several things have changed my mind. My idea is that a cowardly handful of riffraff outcasts from the border have hidden in your house, more by accident than design. We’ll let them go—get rid of them without even a shot. If I didn’t think so—well, I’d be considerably worried. It would make a different state of affairs.”

“Stewart, you are wrong,” she said.

He started, but his reply did not follow swiftly. The expression of his eyes altered. Presently he spoke:

“How so?”

“I saw one of these bandits. I distinctly recognized him.”

One long step brought him close to her.

“Who was he?” demanded Stewart.

“Don Carlos.”

He muttered low and deep, then said, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I saw his figure twice in the hall, then his face in the light. I could never mistake his eyes.”

“Did he know you saw him?”

“I am not positive, but I think so. Oh, he must have known! I was standing full in the light. I had entered the door, then purposely stepped out. His face showed from around a corner, and swiftly flashed out of sight.”

Madeline was tremblingly conscious that Stewart underwent a transformation. She saw as well as felt the leaping passion that changed him.

“Call your friends—get them in here!” he ordered, tersely, and wheeled toward the door.

“Stewart, wait!” she said.

He turned. His white face, his burning eyes, his presence now charged with definite, fearful meaning, influenced her strangely, weakened her.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“That needn’t concern you. Get your party in here. Bar the windows and lock the doors. You’ll be safe.”