"Mix yourself a drink," he said to Dick. "There's a glass and some ice in the bureau inside. Anyhow my steward boy put some there."

Dick, who went into the hut, came back with a grin. "There's a bit of wet blanket, but the ice has gone. It seems to have run into your papers."

"They'll dry," Bethune said tranquilly. "You had better put some of the gaseosa in the wine; it's sour Spanish tinto. Then if you like to pick up the book, I'll read you some Francois Villon. There was red blood in that fellow and it's a pity he's dead. You get into touch with him better beside the Spanish Main than you can in New York."

"I never heard of him, and perhaps I ought to explain——"

"What you came for? Then go ahead and ease your mind. It's business first with you."

"It occurred to me that I had perhaps taken too much upon myself now and then. You are my chief, of course, and I don't want to look pushing."

"That shows good taste," Bethune remarked. "But how are you going to get over the difficulty that you are what you call pushing? Anyhow, I'm surprised it did occur to you."

"To tell the truth, it was something Fuller said——"

"So I imagined! Well, when you go too far I'll pull you up, but we needn't bother about it in the meantime. You were obviously born a hustler, but you have an ingenuousness that disarms resentment. In fact, you quite upset our views of the British character."

"Then the feeling's mutual," Dick rejoined with a grin. "You don't harmonize with what I've seen of Americans."

"Ours is a big country and we've room for different types; but I come from Georgia and we haven't all learned to hustle yet in the South. That's probably why I'm here, when I could have had a much better paid job."

Dick did not doubt this, because he had seen something of the other's mathematical powers. He was not a fool at figures himself, but Bethune could solve by a flash of genius problems that cost him laborious calculation. It was strange that such a man should be content to make a very modest use of his talents.

"I suppose you have met Miss Fuller," Bethune resumed.

"Yes," said Dick. "She made things pleasant for me when I first went to the tent. I like her very much."

"Miss Fuller has most of the New England virtues, including a stern sense of her responsibility. I expect you don't know if she shares her father's good opinion of yourself."

"I don't know what Fuller's opinion is," Dick replied awkwardly.

Bethune laughed. "Well, he's given you a good job. But why I asked was this: if Miss Fuller's quite satisfied about you, she'll probably put her maverick brother in your charge. She came here not long ago with the object of finding out if I was suited for the post, and I imagined learned something about me in a quiet way. It was a relief when she obviously decided that I wasn't the proper man. The girl has intelligence. If she had asked me, I could have recommended you."

"Do you know much about her brother?"

"I've learned something. The lad's a breakaway from the sober Fuller type; and I think his views of life rather agree with mine. However, perhaps we had better let Miss Fuller tell you what she thinks fit. And now would you like some Francois Villon?"

"No," said Dick firmly. "I want to see that Moran turns out his gang at sunrise and must get back."

"Pick me up the book, anyhow," Bethune replied, and laughed good-humoredly when Dick left him.



CHAPTER VII

DICK UNDERTAKES A RESPONSIBILITY

The glare of the big arc-lights flooded the broad, white plaza when Dick crossed it on his way to the Hotel Magellan. The inhabitants of Santa Brigida had finished their evening meal and, as was their custom, were taking the air and listening to the military band. They were of many shades of color and different styles of dress, for dark-skinned peons in plain white cotton, chattering negroes, and grave, blue-clad Chinamen mingled with the citizens who claimed to spring from European stock. These, however, for the most part, were by no means white, and though some derived their sallow skin from Andalusian and Catalan ancestors, others showed traces of Carib origin.

The men were marked by Southern grace; the younger women had a dark, languorous beauty, and although their dress was, as a rule, an out of date copy of Parisian modes, their color taste was good, and the creamy white and soft yellow became them well. A number of the men wore white duck, with black or red sashes and Panama hats, but some had Spanish cloaks and Mexican sombreros.

Flat-topped houses, colored white and pink and lemon, with almost unbroken fronts, ran round the square. A few had green lattices and handsome iron gates to the arched entrances that ran like a tunnel through the house, but many showed no opening except a narrow slit of barred window. Santa Brigida was old, and the part near the plaza had been built four hundred years ago.

Dick glanced carelessly at the crowd as he crossed the square. He liked the music, and there was something interesting and exotic in the play of moving color, but his mind was on his work and he wondered whether he would find a man he wanted at the hotel. One could enter it by a Moorish arch that harmonized with the Eastern style of its front; but this had been added, and he went in by the older tunnel and across the patio to the open-fronted American bar that occupied a space between the balcony pillars.

He did not find his man, and after ordering some wine, lighted a cigarette and looked about while he waited to see if the fellow would come in. One or two steamship officers occupied a table close by, a Frenchman was talking excitedly to a handsome Spanish half-breed, and a fat, red-faced German with spectacles sat opposite a big glass of pale-colored beer. Dick was not interested in these, but his glance grew keener as it rested on a Spaniard, who had a contract at the irrigation works, sitting with one of Fuller's storekeepers at the other end of the room. Though there was no reason the Spaniard should not meet the man in town, Dick wondered what they were talking about, particularly since they had chosen a table away from everybody else.

The man he wanted did not come, and by and by he determined to look for him in the hotel. He went up an outside staircase from the patio, round which the building ran, and had reached a balcony when he met Ida Fuller coming down. She stopped with a smile.

"I am rather glad to see you," she said. "My father, who went on board the American boat, has not come back as he promised, and the French lady he left me with has gone."

"I'm going off to a cargo vessel to ask when they'll land our cement, and we might find out what is keeping Mr. Fuller, if you don't mind walking to the mole."

They left the hotel and shortly afterwards reached the mole, which sheltered the shallow harbor where the cargo lighters were unloaded. The long, smooth swell broke in flashes of green and gold phosphorescence against the concrete wall, and the moon threw a broad, glittering track across the sea. There was a rattle of cranes and winches and a noisy tug was towing a row of barges towards the land. The measured thud of her engines broke through the splash of water flung off the lighters' bows as they lurched across the swell, and somebody on board was singing a Spanish song. Farther out, a mailboat's gently swaying hull blazed with electric light, and astern of her the reflection of a tramp steamer's cargo lamp quivered upon the sea. By and by, Dick, who ascertained that Fuller had not landed, hailed a steam launch, which came panting towards some steps.

"I can put you on board the American boat, and bring you back if Mr. Fuller isn't there," he said, and when Ida agreed, helped her into the launch.

Then he took the helm while the fireman started the engine, and the craft went noisily down the harbor. As they passed the end of the mole, Dick changed his course, and the white town rose clear to view in the moonlight behind the sparkling fringe of surf. The flat-topped houses rose in tiers up a gentle slope, interspersed with feathery tufts of green and draped here and there with masses of creepers. Narrow gaps of shadow opened between them, and the slender square towers of the cathedral dominated all, but in places a steep, red roof struck a picturesque but foreign note.

"Santa Brigida has a romantic look at night," Dick remarked. "Somehow it reminds me of pictures of the East."

"That is not very strange," Ida answered with a smile. "The flat roof and straight, unbroken wall is the oldest type of architecture. Man naturally adopted it when he gave up the tent and began to build."

"Yes," said Dick. "Two uprights and a beam across! You couldn't get anything much simpler. But how did it come here?"

"The Arabs found it in Palestine and took it to Northern Africa as the Moslem conquest spread. The cube, however, isn't beautiful, and the Moors elaborated it, as the Greeks had done, but in a different way. The latter broke the square from the cornices and pillars; the Moors with the Saracenic arch, minarets, and fretted stone, and then forced their model upon Spain. Still the primitive type survives longest and the Spaniards brought that to the New World."

"No doubt, it's the explanation. But the high, red roofs yonder aren't Moorish. The flat top would suit the dry East, but these indicate a country where they need a pitch that will shed the rain and snow. In fact one would imagine that the original model came from Germany."

"It really did. Spain was overrun by the Visigoths, who were Teutons."

"Well," said Dick, "this is interesting. I'm not an architect, but construction's my business, as well as my hobby."

"Then don't you think you are a fortunate man?"

"In a sense, perhaps," Dick answered. "Still, that's no reason you should be bored for my entertainment." He paused and resumed: "I'm grateful because you mean to be kind, as you were the night I met you first at the tent. Although you had heard my story, I saw you wanted to make me feel I was being given a fresh start."

Ida studied him with a thoughtful calm that he found embarrassing. "Perhaps I did, but suppose we talk about something else."

"Very well. If it's not bad form, I wasn't in the least astonished by your lecture about the roofs, because one finds your people have a breadth of knowledge that's remarkable. I once showed an old abbey near our place at home to some American tourists, and soon saw they knew more about its history than I did. There was a girl of seventeen who corrected me once or twice, and when I went to the library I found that she was right. The curious thing is that you're, so to speak, rather parochial with it all. One of my American employers treated me pretty well until he had to make some changes in his business. Took me to his house now and then, and I found his wife and daughters knew the old French and Italian cities. Yet they thought them far behind Marlin Bluff, which is really a horribly ugly place."

"I know it," said Ida, laughing. "Still, the physical attractiveness of a town isn't it's only charm. Besides, are you sure you don't mean patriotic when you say parochial? You ought to sympathize with the former feeling."

"I don't know. Patriotism is difficult when your country has no use for you."

Ida did not reply, and it was a few minutes later when she said: "I'm glad I met you to-night, because we go home soon and there's a favor I want to ask. My brother is coming out to take a post on the irrigation work and I want you to look after him."

"But he mayn't like being looked after, and it's very possible he knows more about the work than I do. I've only had a military training."

"Jake has had no training at all, and is three or four years younger than I think you are."

"Then, of course, I'll be glad to teach him all I can."

"That isn't exactly what I mean, although we want him to learn as much as possible about engineering."

"I don't see what else I could teach him."

Ida smiled. "Then I must explain. Jake is rash and fond of excitement and gay society. He makes friends easily and trusts those he likes, but this has some drawbacks because his confidence is often misplaced. Now I don't think you would find it difficult to gain some influence over him."

"And what would you expect me to do afterwards?"

"You might begin by trying to make him see how interesting his new occupation is."

"That might be harder than you think," Dick replied. "Molding concrete and digging irrigation ditches have a fascination for me, but I dare say it's an unusual taste. Your brother mightn't like weighing cement in the hot mixing sheds or dragging a measuring chain about in the sun."

"It's very possible," Ida agreed with a hint of dryness. "I want you to show him what it means; make him feel the sense of power over material. Jake's rather boyish, and a boy loves to fire a gun because something startling happens in obedience to his will when he pulls the trigger. Isn't it much the same when one gives the orders that shatter massive rocks and move ponderous stones? However, that's not all. I want you to keep him at the dam and prevent his making undesirable friends."

"Though it's not the thing I'm cut out for, I'll try," said Dick, with some hesitation. "I'm surprised that you should put your brother in my charge, after what you know about me."

"You were unfortunate, negligent, perhaps, for once."

"The trouble is that my friends and relations seemed to think me dishonest. At least, they believed that my getting into disgrace was quite as bad."

"I don't," said Ida calmly. "What I ask will need some tact, but if you'll promise to look after Jake, I shall feel satisfied."

Dick was silent for the next few moments, watching the phosphorescent foam stream back from the launch's bows. Then he said: "Thank you, Miss Fuller. In a way, it's embarrassing to feel you trust me; but I'll do what I can to deserve it."

Three or four minutes afterwards the launch steamed round the liner's stern and ran into the gloom beneath her tall side. There was a blaze of light above that fell upon the farthest off of the row of boats, past which the launch ran with her engine stopped, and the dark water broke into a fiery sparkle as the swell lapped the steamer's plates. A man came down the ladder when the launch jarred against its foot, and Ida, finding that Fuller was still on board, went up while Dick steamed across to the cargo-boat that lay with winches hammering not far off. After talking to her mate, he returned to the harbor, and when he landed, lighted a cigarette and studied some alterations that were being made at the landward end of the mole. He had noticed the work as he passed with Ida, but was now able to examine it. A number of concrete blocks and cement bags were lying about.

Beckoning a peon who seemed to be the watchman, Dick gave him a cigarette and asked: "How far are they going to re-face the mole?"

"As far as the post yonder, senor."

It was obvious that a large quantity of cement would be required and Dick resumed: "Who is doing the work?"

"Don Ramon Oliva."

Dick hid his interest. Ramon Oliva was the man he had seen talking to Fuller's storekeeper at the hotel.

"Where does one buy cement in this town?"

"Senor Vaz, the merchant, sells it now and then."

Dick let the peon go, and leaving the mole, found Vaz in a cafe. Sitting down at his table he asked: "Do you keep cement in your warehouse?"

"Sometimes," said the other; "when work it is required for is going on. But I sold the last I had two or three months ago."

"I believe we run short now and then, but we have a big lot being landed now. As our sheds will be pretty full, I could let you have a quantity if you like."

"Thanks, but no," said the merchant. "I do not think anybody would buy it from me for some time, and it is bad to keep when one's store is damp."

Dick, who drank a glass of wine with him, went away in a thoughtful mood. He wondered where Don Ramon got his cement, and meant to find out, though he saw that caution would be needed. He owed much to Fuller and had made his master's business his. Now it looked as if Fuller were being robbed and although he had, no doubt, cunning rogues to deal with, Dick determined that the thing must be stopped. When he returned to the dam he went to Bethune's hut and found him lying in his hammock.

"Whose duty is it to check the storekeeper's lists?" he asked. "I suppose you strike a balance between the goods delivered him and the stuff he hands out for use on the works."

"It's done, of course," said Bethune. "I haven't examined the books myself; Francois, the Creole clerk, is responsible. However, one would imagine you had duties enough without taking up another, but if you mean to do so, you had better begin soon. Your energy won't stand this climate long."

"I don't know what I may do yet," Dick replied. "Still, it struck me that our stores might be sold in the town."

"I expect they are, to some extent," Bethune carelessly agreed. "That kind of thing is hard to stop anywhere, and these folks are very smart at petty pilfering. Anyway, you might get yourself into trouble by interfering and any small theft you stopped probably wouldn't pay for the time you'd have to spend on the job. Leave it alone, and take matters as you find them, is my advice."

Dick talked about something else, but when he went back to his shack he knew what he meant to do.



CHAPTER VIII

AN INFORMAL COURT

One morning, soon after Fuller and his daughter had gone home, Dick stood at a table in the testing house behind the mixing sheds. The small, galvanized iron building shook with the throb of engines and rattle of machinery, and now and then a shower of cinders pattered upon the roof; for the big mill that ground up the concrete was working across the road. The lattice shutters were closed, for the sake of privacy, and kept out the glare, though they could not keep out the heat, which soaked through the thin, iron walls, and Dick's face was wet with perspiration as he arranged a number of small concrete blocks. Some of these were broken, and some partly crushed. Delicate scales and glass measures occupied a neighboring shelf, and a big steel apparatus that looked rather like a lever weighing machine stood in the shadow.

Where the draught that came through the lattices flowed across the room, Bethune lounged in a canvas chair, and another man, with a quiet, sunburned face, sat behind him. This was Stuyvesant, whose authority was only second to Fuller's.

"Brandon seems to have taken a good deal of trouble, but this kind of investigation needs the strictest accuracy, and we haven't the best of testing apparatus," Bethune remarked. "I expect he'll allow that the results he has got may be to some extent misleading, and I doubt if it's worth while to go on with the matter. Are you sure you have made no mistakes, Dick?"

Dick pondered for a few moments. If he were right, as he thought he was, the statements he had to make would lead to the discharge of the sub-contractor. Remembering his own disgrace, he shrank from condemning another. He knew what he had suffered, and the man might be innocent although his guilt seemed plain. It was a hateful situation, but his duty was to protect his master's interests and he could not see him robbed.

"You can check my calculations," he answered quietly.

"That's so," agreed Stuyvesant, who added with a dry smile as he noted Bethune's disapproving look: "We can decide about going on with the thing when we have heard Brandon."

"Very well," said Dick, giving him some papers, and then indicated two different rows of the small concrete blocks. "These marked A were made from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva's stock on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and absorbent tests, and you'll see that there's very little difference in the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much alike, but you wouldn't expect to find that of two different brands identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same stuff."

Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured the blocks with a micrometer gage, after which he filled two of the graduated glass measures and then weighed the water.

"Well?" he said to Bethune, who had picked up Dick's calculations.

"The figures are right; he's only out in a small decimal."

Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he produced from his pocket.

"They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand, and we can take it that they're accurate. Still, this doesn't prove that Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this coast, and he may have bought a quantity from somebody else. Did you examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?"

"No," said Dick, "I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next thing is our storekeeper's tally showing the number of bags delivered to him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he handed out and could make nothing of the entries."

"Let me see," said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when Dick handed him a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. "You can talk, if you like," he added as he sharpened a pencil.

Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on the table.

"Francois isn't much of a bookkeeper," he remarked. "One or two of the delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might have conspired with Oliva. Still, that's against my notion of his character, and I find he's missed booking stuff that had been given out, which, of course, wouldn't have suited the other's plans."

"You can generally count on a Frenchman's honesty," Stuyvesant observed. "But do you make the deliveries ex-store tally with what went in?"

"I don't," said Bethune dryly. "Here's the balance I struck. It shows the storekeeper is a good many bags short."

He passed the paper across, and Dick examined it with surprise.

"You have worked this out already from the muddled and blotted entries! Do you think you've got it right?"

"I'm sure," said Bethune, smiling. "I'll prove it if you like. We know how much cement went into stock. How many molded blocks of the top course have we put down at the dam?"

Dick told him, and after a few minutes' calculation Bethune looked up. "Then here you are! Our concrete's a standard density; we know the weight of water and sand and what to allow for evaporation. You see my figures agree very closely with the total delivery ex-store."

They did so, and Dick no longer wondered how Bethune, who ostentatiously declined to let his work interfere with his comfort, held his post. The man thought in numbers, using the figures, as one used words, to express his knowledge rather than as a means of obtaining it by calculation. Dick imagined this was genius.

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I guess we had better send for the storekeeper next."

"Get it over," agreed Bethune. "It's an unpleasant job."

Dick sent a half-naked peon to look for the man, and was sensible of some nervous strain as he waited for his return. He hated the task he had undertaken, but it must be carried out. Bethune, who had at first tried to discourage him, now looked interested, and Dick saw that Stuyvesant was resolute. In the meanwhile, the shed had grown suffocatingly hot, his face and hands were wet with perspiration, and the rumble of machinery made his head ache. He lighted a cigarette, but the tobacco tasted bitter and he threw it away. Then there were footsteps outside and Stuyvesant turned to him.

"We leave you to put the thing through. You're prosecutor."

Dick braced himself as a man came in and stood by the table, looking at the others suspiciously. He was an American, but his face was heavy and rather sullen, and his white clothes were smeared with dust.

"We have been examining your stock-book," said Dick. "It's badly kept."

The fellow gave him a quick glance. "Mr. Fuller knows I'm not smart at figuring, and if you want the books neat, you'll have to get me a better clerk. Anyhow, I've my own tally and allow I can tell you what stuff I get and where it goes."

"That is satisfactory. Look at this list and tell me where the cement you're short of has gone."

"Into the mixing shed, I guess," said the other with a half-defiant frown.

"Then it didn't come out. We haven't got the concrete at the dam. Are there any full bags not accounted for in the shed?"

"No, sir. You ought to know the bags are skipped right into the tank as the mill grinds up the mush."

"Very well. Perhaps you'd better consult your private tally and see if it throws any light upon the matter."

The man took out a note-book and while he studied it Bethune asked, "Will you let me have the book?"

"I guess not," said the other, who shut the book with a snap, and then turned and confronted Dick.

"I want to know why you're getting after me!"

"It's fairly plain. You're responsible for the stores and can't tell us what has become of a quantity of the goods."

"Suppose I own up that my tally's got mixed?"

"Then you'd show yourself unfit for your job; but that is not the worst. If you had made a mistake the bags wouldn't vanish. You had the cement, it isn't in the store and hasn't reached us in the form of concrete. It must have gone somewhere."

"Where do you reckon it went, if it wasn't into the mixing shed?"

"To the Santa Brigida mole," Dick answered quietly, and noting the man's abrupt movement, went on: "What were you talking to Ramon Oliva about at the Hotel Magellan?"

The storekeeper did not reply, but the anger and confusion in his face were plain, and Dick turned to the others.

"I think we'll send for Oliva," said Stuyvesant. "Keep this fellow here until he comes."

Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot.

"You are doing some work on the town mole," Dick said to him. "Where did you get the cement?"

"I bought it," Oliva answered, with a surprised look.

"From whom?"

"A merchant at Anagas, down the coast. But, senores, my contract on the mole is a matter for the port officials. I do not see the object of these questions."

"You had better answer them," Stuyvesant remarked, and signed Dick to go on.

Dick paused for a moment or two, remembering how he had confronted his judges in a tent in an English valley. The scene came back with poignant distinctness.

He could hear the river brawling among the stones, and feel his Colonel's stern, condemning gaze fixed upon his face. For all that, his tone was resolute as he asked: "What was the brand of the cement you bought?"

"The Tenax, senor," Oliva answered with a defiant smile.

Then Dick turned to the others with a gesture which implied that there was no more to be said, and quietly sat down. Tenax was not the brand that Fuller used, and its different properties would have appeared in the tests. The sub-contractor had betrayed himself by the lie, and his accomplice looked at him with disgust.

"You've given the thing away," he growled. "Think they don't know what cement is? Now they have you fixed!"

There was silence for the next minute while Stuyvesant studied some figures in his pocket-book. Then he wrote upon a leaf, which he tore out and told Dick to give it to Oliva.

"Here's a rough statement of your account up to the end of last month, Don Ramon," he said. "You can check it and afterwards hand the pay-clerk a formal bill, brought up to date, but you'll notice I have charged you with a quantity of cement that's missing from our store. Your engagement with Mr. Fuller ends to-day."

Oliva spread out his hands with a dramatic gesture. "Senores, this is a scandal, a grand injustice! You understand it will ruin me? It is impossible that I submit."

"Very well. We'll put the matter into the hands of the Justicia."

"It is equal," Oliva declared with passion. "You have me marked as a thief. The port officials give me no more work and my friends talk. At the Justicia all the world hears my defense."

"As you like," said Stuyvesant, but the storekeeper turned to Oliva with a contemptuous grin.

"I allow you're not such a blamed fool," he remarked. "Take the chance they've given you and get from under before the roof falls in."

Oliva pondered for a few moments, his eyes fixed on Stuyvesant's unmoved face, and then shrugged with an air of injured resignation.

"It is a grand scandal, but I make my bill."

He moved slowly to the door, but paused as he reached it, and gave Dick a quick, malignant glance. Then he went out and the storekeeper asked Stuyvesant: "What are you going to do with me?"

"Fire you right now. Go along to the pay-clerk and give him your time. I don't know if that's all we ought to do; but we'll be satisfied if you and your partner get off this camp."

"I'll quit," said the storekeeper, who turned to Dick. "You're a smart kid, but we'd have bluffed you all right if the fool had allowed he used the same cement."

Then he followed Oliva, and Stuyvesant got up.

"That was Oliva's mistake," he remarked. "I saw where you were leading him and you put the questions well. Now, however, you'll have to take on his duties until we get another man."

They left the testing-house, and as Bethune and Dick walked up the valley the former said: "It's my opinion that you were imprudent in one respect. You showed the fellows that it was you who found them out. It might have been better if you had, so to speak, divided the responsibility."

"They've gone, and that's the most important thing," Dick rejoined.

"From the works. It doesn't follow that they'll quit Santa Brigida. Payne, the storekeeper, is of course an American tough, but I don't think he'll make trouble. He'd have robbed us cheerfully, but I expect he'll take his being found out as a risk of the game; besides, Stuyvesant will have to ship him home if he asks for his passage. But I didn't like the look Oliva gave you. These dago half-breeds are a revengeful lot."

"I'm not in the town often and I'll be careful if I go there after dark. To tell the truth, I didn't want to interfere, but I couldn't let the rogues go on with their stealing."

"I suppose not," Bethune agreed. "The trouble about doing your duty is that it often costs you something."



CHAPTER IX

JAKE FULLER

A month after Fuller sailed his son arrived at Santa Brigida, and Dick, who met him on the mole, got something of a surprise when a handsome youth landed and came straight towards him. Jake Fuller was obviously very young, but had an ease of manner and a calm self-confidence that would have done credit to an elderly man of the world. His clothes showed nice taste, and there was nothing about him to indicate the reckless scapegrace Dick had expected.

"You're Brandon, of course," he said as he shook hands. "Glad to meet you. Knew you a quarter of a mile off."

"How's that?" Dick asked. "You haven't seen me before."

"For one thing, you're stamped Britisher; then you had a kind of determined look, as if you'd come down to yank me right off to the irrigation ditches before I'd time to run loose in the city. Matter of duty to you, and you were going to put it through."

Dick said nothing, and Jake laughed. "Well, that's all right; I guess we'll hit it! And now we'll put out when you like. I laid in a pretty good breakfast on the boat; I like smart service and a well-chosen menu, and don't suppose you have either at the camp."

"They might be better," Dick agreed, feeling that he had promised Miss Fuller more than he might be able to perform. Then he told a peon to take Jake's luggage and led the way to a mule carriage at the end of the mole.

"I didn't expect to ride in a transfer-wagon," Jake remarked. "Haven't you any autos yet? If not, I'll indent for one when the next stock order goes home."

"Perhaps you had better wait until you see the roads."

"You're surely British," Jake replied. "If you'd been an American, you'd get the car first and make the roads fit in. However, you might tell the ancient dago to get a move on."

Dick was silent for the next few minutes. On the whole, he thought he would like Fuller, and made some allowance for the excitement he, no doubt, felt at beginning his career in a foreign country, but none for any wish to impress his companion. It was unlikely that the self-possessed lad would care what Dick thought of him, although it looked as if he meant to be friendly. Then as the sweating mules slowly climbed the rutted track out of the town Dick began to point out the changing level of the land, the ravines, or barrancos, that formed natural drainage channels from the high watershed, and the influence of drought and moisture on the cultivation. Jake showed a polite interest, but inquired what amusements were to be had in Santa Brigida, about which Dick gave him as little information as possible. If he had understood Miss Fuller's hints, the Spanish city was no place for her brother.

Jake spent the day following Dick about the works and made no complaint about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence and Dick was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter's quarters had been prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after the evening meal.

"Do you think you'll like your work?" Dick asked.

"I've got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I'm not allowed to draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that's another form of the same talent, though it's considerably less interesting than the first."

"But perhaps more useful," Dick suggested.

"Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need to make them ugly."

"Then you're a bit of an artist?"

"I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but had to acquiesce."

"It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as if you were different from the rest of us."

"We are different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus. For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're wearing."

"I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?"

"Well," said Jake, with a critical glance, "they're all wrong. Now you've got good shoulders, your figure's well balanced, and I like the way you hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I'll show you some time when I model you in clay." He paused and grinned. "I guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost. Besides, there is something of the soldier about you."

"I wish you'd stop rotting," said Dick with a touch of awkwardness, though he saw that Jake knew nothing about his leaving the army. "Was it your father's notion that you should be an engineer?"

"He thinks so," Jake answered, grinning. "My opinion is that you have to thank my sister Ida for the job of looking after me. She made this her business until I went to Yale, when, of course, she lost control. Ida has a weakness for managing people, for their good, but you ought to take it as a delicate compliment that she passed me on to you."

"After all, Miss Fuller's age must be nearly the same as mine," Dick remarked.

"I see what you mean, but in some respects she's much older. In fact, I guess I could give you a year or two myself. But it seems to me you've kind of wilted since we began to talk. You've gone slack and your eyes look heavy. Say, I'm sorry if I've made you tired."

"I don't think you had much to do with it," said Dick. "My head aches and I've a shivery feeling that came on about this time last night. A touch of malarial fever, perhaps; they get it now and then in the town, though we ought to be free from it on the hill. Anyhow, if you don't mind, I'll get off to bed."

He went away, and Jake looked about the veranda and the room that opened on to it. There was a canvas chair or two, a folding table, a large drawing board on a trestle frame, and two cheap, tin lamps. It was obvious that Dick thought of nothing much except his work and had a Spartan disregard for comfort.

"A good sort, but it's concrete first and last with him," Jake remarked. "Guess I've got to start by making this shack fit for a white man to live in."

Dick passed a restless night, but felt better when he began his work on the dam next morning, though he did not touch the small hard roll and black coffee his colored steward had put ready for him. The air was fresh, the jungle that rolled down the hill glittered with dew, and the rays of the red sun had, so far, only a pleasant warmth. Cranes were rattling, locomotives snorted as they moved the ponderous concrete blocks and hauled away loads of earth, and a crowd of picturesque figures were busy about the dam. Some wore dirty white cotton and ragged crimson sashes; the dark limbs of others projected from garments of vivid color. Dick drove the men as hard as he was able. They worked well, chattering and laughing, in the early morning, and there was much to be done, because Oliva's dismissal had made a difference.

The men flagged, as the sun got higher, and at length Dick sat down in the thin shade of a tree. The light was now intense, the curving dam gleamed a dazzling pearly-gray through a quivering radiance, and the water that had gathered behind it shone like molten silver. One could imagine that the pools reflected heat as well as light. Dick's eyes ached, and for a few minutes he let them rest upon the glossy, green jungle, and the belts of cultivation down the hill.

Then he roused himself, because he must watch what was going on. The great blocks must be properly fitted into place, and one could not trust the dusky laborers to use the care that was needed; besides, they were getting slack, and the fresh blocks the locomotives brought would soon begin to accumulate. Since this would mean extra handling and consequent expense, the track must be kept clear. Still, Dick wished noon would come, for his head ached badly and he felt the heat as he had not felt it before.

It was hard to force himself to begin again after the short mid-day rest, but he became a little more vigorous as the sun sank and the shadow of the black cordillera lengthened across the valley. After dinner, when he lounged on the veranda, the headache and lassitude returned, and he listened to Jake's talk vacantly and soon went to bed. He knew he was not well, but while malarial fever was not unusual in the neighborhood people seldom took it in a virulent form, and as there was a good doctor at Santa Brigida he determined to consult him when he had occasion to visit the town. As it happened, a crane broke next day, and when evening came he set off to inquire if new castings could be made for it in the Spanish foundry. While he waited for an engine to take him down the line, Jake announced his intention of coming.

"I've never been round a Spanish town," he said.

"You're not going round a Spanish town now, if I can prevent it," Dick rejoined. "However, I suppose I can't order you off your father's locomotive."

Jake smiled. "You can resent my taking the line you hint at when I've done so, but I guess one must make allowances. You're getting the fever badly, partner."

"It's the heat," Dick answered in an apologetic tone. "Anyhow, Santa Brigida's a dirty, uninteresting place."

"I expect your ideas of what's interesting are different from mine. Concrete's all right in the daytime, though you can have too much of it then, but you want to please your eye and relax your brain at night."

"I was afraid of something of the kind. But here's the locomotive. Get up, if you're coming."

Dick was silent as the engine jolted down the track, for he was feverish and his companion's talk irritated him. Besides, he had promised Ida Fuller to take care of the lad and knew something of the license that ruled in the city. Jake seemed to claim the supposititious privileges of the artistic temperament, and there were wine-shops, gamblers, pretty Creole girls with easy manners, and ragged desperados who carried knives, in Santa Brigida. In fact, it offered too many opportunities for romantic adventures. In consequence, Dick went to the Hotel Magellan, which they reached after walking from the end of the line, and took Jake into the bar.

"You had better stop here; I won't be longer than I can help," he said. "They'll make you a rather nice iced drink of Canary tinto."

"Just so," Jake replied. "Tinto's a thin, sour claret, isn't it? In New York not long ago you could get iced buttermilk. Can't say I was fond of it, but I reckon it's as exhilarating as the other stuff."

Dick left him with some misgivings and went about his business. It was eight o'clock in the evening and the foundry would be closed, but he knew where the manager lived and went to his house, which was situated in the older part of the city. He had not taken Jake because he had to pass some of the less reputable cafes and gambling dens and thought it undesirable that the lad should know where they were. The foundry manager was not at home, but a languishing young woman with a thickly powdered face, who called her mother before she conferred with Dick, told him where Don Tomas had gone, and Dick set off again in search of the cafe she named.

A half moon hung low in the clear sky, but, for the most part, its light only reached a short distance down the white and yellow fronts of the flat-topped houses. These got light and air from the central courtyard, or patio, and the outer walls were only pierced by one or two very narrow windows at some height from the ground. The openings were marked here and there by a faint glow from within, which was often broken by a shadowy female form leaning against the bars and speaking softly to another figure on the pavement below.

There were few street lamps, and in places the houses crowded in upon the narrow strip of gloom through which Dick picked his way with echoing steps. Most of the citizens were in the plaza, and the streets were quiet except for the measured beat of the surf and the distant music of the band. A smell of rancid oil and garlic, mingled with the strong perfumes Spanish women use, hung about the buildings, but now and then a puff of cooler air flowed through a dark opening and brought with it the keen freshness of the sea. Once the melancholy note of a guitar came down from a roof and somebody began to sing in a voice that quivered with fantastic tremolos.

Dick went carefully, keeping as far as possible away from the walls. In Santa Brigida, all white men were supposed to be rich, and the honesty of the darker part of its mixed population was open to doubt. Besides, he had learned that the fair-skinned Northerners were disliked. They brought money, which was needed, into the country, but they also brought machines and business methods that threatened to disturb the tranquillity the Latin half-breed enjoyed. The latter must be beaten in industrial strife and, exchanging independence for higher wages, become subject to a more vigorous, mercantile race. The half-breeds seemed to know this, and regarded the foreigners with jealous eyes. For all that, Dick carried no weapons. A pistol large enough to be of use was an awkward thing to hide, and he agreed with Bethune that to wear it ostentatiously was more likely to provoke than avoid attack.

Once he thought he was followed, but when he stopped to look round, the shadowy figure behind turned into a side street, and he presently found the man he was in search of in a quiet cafe. He spent some time explaining the drawings of the patterns that would be required before Don Tomas undertook to make the castings, and then languidly leaned back in his chair. His head had begun to ache again and he felt strangely limp and tired. The fever was returning, as it did at night, but he roused himself by and by and set off to visit the doctor.

On his way he passed the casino and, to his surprise, saw Jake coming down the steps. Dick frowned when they met.

"How did you get in?" he asked. "It's the rule for somebody to put your name down on your first visit."

"So it seemed," said Jake. "There are, however, ways of getting over such difficulties, and a dollar goes some distance in this country; much farther, in fact, than it does in ours."

"It's some consolation to think you've had to pay for your amusement," Dick answered sourly.

Jake smiled. "On the contrary, I found it profitable. You make a mistake that's common with serious folks, by taking it for granted that a cheerful character marks a fool." He put his hand in his pocket and brought it out filled with silver coin. "Say, what do you think of this?"

"Put the money back," Dick said sharply, for there was a second-rate wine-shop not far off and a group of untidy half-breeds lounged about its front. Jake, however, took out another handful of silver.

"My luck was pretty good; I reckon it says something for me that I knew when to stop."

He jingled the money as he passed the wine-shop, and Dick, looking back, thought one of the men inside got up, but nobody seemed to be following them when they turned into another street. This was the nearest way to the doctor's, but it was dark and narrow, and Dick did not like its look.

"Keep in the middle," he warned Jake.

They were near the end of the street when two men came out of an arch and waited for them.

"Have you a match, senor?" one who held a cigarette in his hand asked.

"No," said Dick suspiciously. "Keep back!"

"But it is only a match we want," said the other, and Jake stopped.

"What's the matter with giving him one? Wait till I get my box."

He gave it to the fellow, who struck a match, and after lighting his cigarette held it so that the faint illumination touched Dick's face.

"Thanks, senor," said the half-breed, who turned to his companion as he added softly in Castilian: "The other."

Dick understood. It was not Jake but himself who was threatened; and he thought he knew why.

"Look out for that fellow, Jake!" he cried. "Get back to the wall!"

Jake, to Dick's relief, did as he was told, but next moment another man ran out of the arch, and somebody in the darkness called out in Castilian. Dick thought he knew the voice; but the men were behind him now, and he turned to face them. The nearest had his hand at his ragged sash, and Dick saw that he must act before the long Spanish knife came out. He struck hard, leaning forward as he did so, and the man reeled back; but the other two closed with him, and although his knuckles jarred as a second blow got home, he felt a stinging pain high up in his side. His breathing suddenly got difficult, but as he staggered towards the wall he saw Jake dash his soft hat in the face of another antagonist and spring upon the fellow. There seemed to be four men round them and one was like Oliva, the contractor; but Dick's sight was going and he had a fit of coughing that was horribly painful.

He heard Jake shout and footsteps farther up the street, and tried to lean against the house for support, but slipped and fell upon the pavement. He could neither see nor hear well, but made out that his assailants had slunk away and men were running towards Jake, who stood, calling for help, in the middle of the street. Shortly afterwards a group of dark figures gathered round and he heard confused voices. He thought Jake knelt down and tried to lift him, but this brought on a stab of burning pain and he knew nothing more.



CHAPTER X

LA MIGNONNE

A cool sea breeze blew through the half-opened lattice, and a ray of sunshine quivered upon the ocher-colored wall, when Dick awoke from a refreshing sleep. He felt helplessly weak, and his side, which was covered by a stiff bandage, hurt him when he moved, but his head was clear at last and he languidly looked about. The room was spacious, but rather bare. There was no carpet, but a rug made a blotch of cool green on the smooth, dark floor. Two or three religious pictures hung upon the wall and he noted how the soft blue of the virgin's dress harmonized with the yellow background. An arch at one end was covered by a leather curtain like those in old Spanish churches, but it had been partly drawn back to let the air circulate. Outside the hooked-back lattice he saw the rails of a balcony, and across the narrow patio a purple creeper spread about a dazzling white wall.

All this was vaguely familiar, because it was some days since Dick had recovered partial consciousness, though he had been too feeble to notice his surroundings much or find out where he was. Now he studied the room with languid interest as he tried to remember what had led to his being brought there. The scanty furniture was dark and old; and he knew the wrinkled, brown-faced woman in black who sat by the window with a dark shawl wound round her head. She had a place in his confused memories; as had another woman with a curious lifeless face and an unusual dress, who had once or twice lifted him and done something to his bandages. Still, it was not of her Dick was thinking. There had been somebody else, brighter and fresher than either, who sat beside him when he lay in fevered pain and sometimes stole in and vanished after a pitiful glance.

A bunch of flowers stood upon the table; and their scent mingled with the faint smell of decay that hung about the room. Lying still, Dick heard the leather curtain rustle softly in the draught, muffled sounds of traffic, and the drowsy murmur of the surf. Its rhythmic beat was soothing and he thought he could smell the sea. By and by he made an abrupt move that hurt him as a voice floated into the room. It was singularly clear and sweet, and he thought he knew it, as he seemed to know the song, but could not catch the words and the singing stopped. Then light footsteps passed the arch and there was silence again.

"Who's that?" he asked with an energy he had not been capable of until then.

"La mignonne," said the old woman with a smile that showed her thick, red lips and firm white teeth.

"And who's Mignonne?"

"La, la!" said the woman soothingly. "C'est ma mignonne. But you jess go to sleep again."

"How can I go to sleep when I'm not sleepy and you won't tell me what I want to know?" Dick grumbled, but the woman raised her hand and began to sing an old plantation song.

"I'm not a child," he protested weakly. "But that's rather nice."

Closing his eyes, he tried to think. His nurse was not a Spanish mulatto, as her dark dress suggested. It was more likely that she came from Louisiana, where the old French stock had not died out; but Dick felt puzzled. She had spoken, obviously with affection, of ma mignonne; but he was sure the singer was no child of hers. There was no Creole accent in that clear voice, and the steps he heard were light. The feet that had passed his door were small and arched; not flat like a negro's. He had seen feet of the former kind slip on an iron staircase and brush, in pretty satin shoes, across a lawn on which the moonlight fell. Besides, a girl whose skin was fair and whose movements were strangely graceful had flitted about his room. While he puzzled over this he went to sleep and on waking saw with a start of pleasure Jake sitting near his bed. His nurse had gone.

"Hullo!" he said. "I'm glad you've come. There are a lot of things I want to know."

"The trouble is I've been ordered not to tell you much. It's a comfort to see you looking brighter."

"I feel pretty well. But can you tell me where I am and how I got there?"

"Certainly. We'll take the last question first. Somebody tore off a shutter and we carried you on it. I guess you know you got a dago's knife between your ribs."

"I seem to remember something like that," said Dick; who added with awkward gratitude: "I believe the brutes would have killed me if you hadn't been there."

"It was a pretty near thing. Does it strike you as curious that while you made yourself responsible for me I had to take care of you?"

"You did so, anyhow," Dick remarked with feeling. "But go on."

"Somebody brought a Spanish doctor, who said you couldn't be moved much and must be taken into the nearest house, so we brought you here."

"Where is 'here'? That's what I want to know?"

"My orders are not to let you talk. We've changed our positions now; you've got to listen. For all that, you ought to be thankful you're not in the Santa Brigida hospital, which was too far away. It's three hundred years old and smells older. Felt as if you could bake bricks in it, and no air gets in."

"But what were you doing at the hospital?"

"I went to see a fellow who told me he'd been fired out of our camp. He came up just after the dago knifed you, and knocked out the man I was grappling with, but got an ugly stab from one of the gang. We didn't find this out until we had disposed of you. However, he's nearly all right and they'll let him out soon."

"Ah!" said Dick. "That must be Payne, the storekeeper. But, you see, I fired him. Why did he interfere?"

"I don't know. He said something about your being a white man and it was three to one."

Dick pondered this and then his thoughts resumed their former groove.

"Who's the mulatto woman in black?"

"She's called Lucille. A nice old thing, and seems to have looked after you well. When I came in she was singing you to sleep. Voice all gone, of course, but I'd like to write down the song. It sounded like the genuine article."

"What do you mean by the 'genuine article'?"

"Well, I think it was one of the plantation lullabies they used to sing before the war; not the imitation trash fourth-rate composers turned out in floods some years ago. That, of course, has no meaning, but the other expressed the spirit of the race. Words quaint coon-English with a touch of real feeling; air something after the style of a camp-meeting hymn, and yet somehow African. In fact, it's unique music, but it's good."

"Hadn't I another nurse?" Dick asked.

Jake laughed. "I ought to have remembered that you're not musical. There was a nursing sister of some religious order."

"I don't mean a nun," Dick persisted. "A girl came in now and then."

"It's quite possible. Some of them are sympathetic and some are curious. No doubt, you were an interesting patient; anyhow, you gave the Spanish doctor plenty trouble. He was rather anxious for a time; the fever you had before the dago stabbed you complicated things." Jake paused and looked at his watch. "Now I've got to quit. I had orders not to stay long, but I'll come back soon to see how you're getting on."

Dick let him go and lay still, thinking drowsily. Jake had apparently not meant to answer his questions. He wanted to know where he was and had not been told. It looked as if his comrade had been warned not to enlighten him; but there was no reason for this. Above all, he wanted to know who was the girl with the sweet voice and light step. Jake, who had admitted that she might have been in his room, had, no doubt, seen her, and Dick could not understand why he should refuse to speak of her. While he puzzled about it he went to sleep again.

It was dark when he awoke, and perhaps he was feverish or his brain was weakened by illness, for it reproduced past scenes that were mysteriously connected with the present. He was in a strange house in Santa Brigida, for he remarked the shadowy creeper on the wall and a pool of moonlight on the dark floor of his room. Yet the cornfields in an English valley, through which he drove his motor bicycle, seemed more real, and he could see the rows of stocked sheaves stretch back from the hedgerows he sped past. Something sinister and threatening awaited him at the end of the journey, but he could not tell what it was. Then the cornfields vanished and he was crossing a quiet, walled garden with a girl at his side. He remembered how the moonlight shone through the branches of a tree and fell in silver, splashes on her white dress. Her face was in the shadow, but he knew it well.

After a time he felt thirsty, and moving his head looked feebly about the room. A slender, white figure sat near the wall, and he started, because this must be the girl he had heard singing.

"I wonder if you could get me something to drink?" he said.

The girl rose and he watched her intently as she came towards him with a glass. When she entered the moonlight his heart gave a sudden throb.

"Clare, Miss Kenwardine!" he said, and awkwardly raised himself on his arm.

"Yes," she said, "I am Clare Kenwardine. But drink this; then I'll put the pillows straight and you must keep still."

Dick drained the glass and lay down again, for he was weaker than he thought.

"Thanks! Don't go back into the dark. You have been here all the time? I mean, since I came."

"As you were seldom quite conscious until this morning, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, in a way, and yet I did. There was somebody about who made me think of England, and then, you see, I heard you sing."

"Still," she said, smiling, "I don't quite understand."

"Don't you?" said Dick, who felt he must make things plain. "Well, you stole in and out and sat here sometimes when Lucille was tired. I didn't exactly notice you—perhaps I was too ill—but I felt you were there, and that was comforting."

"And yet you are surprised to see me now!"

"I can't have explained it properly. I didn't know you were Miss Kenwardine; but I felt I knew you and kept trying to remember, but I was feverish and my mind wouldn't take your image in. For all that, something told me it was really there already, and I'd be able to recognize it if I waited. It was like a photograph that wasn't developed."

"You're feverish now," Clare answered quietly. "I mustn't let you talk so much."

"You're as bad as Jake; he wouldn't answer my questions," Dick grumbled. "Then, you see, I want to talk."

Clare laughed, as if she found it a relief to do so. "That doesn't matter if it will do you harm."

"I'll be very quiet," Dick pleaded. "I'll only speak a word or two now and then. But don't go away!"

Clare sat down, and after a few minutes Dick resumed: "You passed my door to-day, and it's curious that I knew your step, though, if you can understand, without actually recognizing it. It was as if I was dreaming something that was real. The worst of being ill is that your brain gets working independently, bringing things up on its own account, without your telling it. Anyhow, I remembered the iron steps with the glow of the window through the curtain, and how you slipped—you wore little white shoes, and the moonlight shone through the branches on your dress."

He broke off and frowned, for a vague, unpleasant memory obtruded itself. Something that had had disastrous consequences had happened in the quiet garden, but he could not remember what it was.

"Why did Lucille call you ma mignonne?" he asked. "Doesn't it mean a petted child?"

"Not always. She was my nurse when I was young."

"Then you have lived here before?"

"Not here, but in a country where there are people like Lucille, though it's long ago. But you mustn't speak another word. Go to sleep at once!"

"Then stay where I can see you and I'll try," Dick answered; and although he did not mean to do so, presently closed his eyes.

Clare waited until his quiet breathing showed that he was asleep, and then crossed the floor softly and stood looking down on him. There was light enough to see his face and it was worn and thin. His weakness moved her to pity, but there was something else. He had remembered that night in England, he knew her step and voice, and his rambling talk had caused her a thrill, for she remembered the night in England well. Brandon had shielded her from a man whom she had good ground for wishing to avoid. He had, no doubt, not quite understood the situation, but had seen that she needed help and chivalrously offered it. She knew he could be trusted and had without much hesitation made her unconventional request. He had then been marked by strong vitality and cheerful confidence, but he was ill and helpless now, and his weakness appealed to her as his vigor had not done. He was, in a way, dependent on her, and Clare felt glad this was so. She blushed as she smoothed the coverlet across his shoulders and then quietly stole away.

There was no sea breeze next morning and the sun shone through a yellow haze that seemed to intensify the heat. The white walls reflected a curious subdued light that was more trying to the eyes than the usual glare, and the beat of the surf was slow and languid. The air was still and heavy, and Dick's fever, which had been abating, recovered force. He was hot and irritable, and his restlessness did not vanish until Clare came in at noon.

"I've been watching for you since daybreak, and you might have come before," he said. "Lucille means well, but she's clumsy. She doesn't help one to be quiet as you do."

"You're not quiet," Clare answered in a reproving tone. "Lucille is a very good nurse; better than I am."

"Well," said Dick in a thoughtful tone, "perhaps she is, in a way. She never upsets the medicine on my pillow, as you did the last time. The nasty stuff got into my hair——"

Clare raised her hand in remonstrance. "You really mustn't talk."

"I'm going to talk," Dick answered defiantly. "It's bad for me to keep puzzling over things, and I mean to get them straight. Lucille's very patient, but she isn't soothing as you are. It rests one's eyes to look at you, but that's not altogether why I like you about. I expect it's because you knew I hadn't stolen those plans when everybody else thought I had. But then why did I tear your letter up?"

Clare made an abrupt movement. She knew he must be kept quiet and his brain was not working normally, but his statement was disturbing.

"You tore it up?" she asked, with some color in her face.

"Yes," said Dick in a puzzled voice, "I tore it all to bits. There was a reason, though I can't remember it. In fact, I can't remember anything to-day. But don't go off if I shut my eyes for a minute: it wouldn't be fair."

Clare turned her head, but except for this she did not move, and it was a relief when after a few disjointed remarks his voice died away. She was moved to pity, but for a few moments she had quivered in the grasp of another emotion. It was obvious that Dick did not altogether know what he was saying, but he had shown her plainly the place she had in his mind, and she knew she would not like to lose it.

Half an hour later Lucille came in quietly and Clare went away.



CHAPTER XI

CLARE GETS A SHOCK

For a week the stagnant heat brooded over Santa Brigida, sucking up the citizens' energy and leaving limp depression. Steaming showers that broke at intervals filled the air with an enervating damp, and the nights were worse than the days. No draught crept through the slits of windows into the darkened houses, and the musty smell that characterizes old Spanish cities gathered in the patios and sweltering rooms.

This reacted upon Dick, who had a bad relapse, and for some days caused his nurses grave anxiety. There was sickness in the town and the doctor could spare but little time to him, the nursing sister was occupied, and Dick was, for the most part, left to Clare and Lucille. They did what they could; the girl with pitiful tenderness, the mulatto woman with patience and some skill, but Dick did not know until afterwards that, in a measure, he owed his life to them. Youth, however, was on his side, the delirium left him, and after lying for a day or two in half-conscious stupor, he came back to his senses, weak but with unclouded mind. He knew he was getting better and his recovery would not be long, but his satisfaction was marred by keen bitterness. Clare had stolen his papers and ruined him.

Point by point he recalled his visit to Kenwardine's house, trying to find something that could be urged in the girl's defense and when he failed seeking excuses for her; but her guilt was obvious. He hated to own it, but the proof was overwhelming. She knew the power of her beauty and had treated him as a confiding fool. He was not revengeful and had been a fool, but it hurt him badly to realize that she was not what he had thought. He hardly spoke to Lucille, who came in now and then, and did not ask for Clare, as he had hitherto done. The girl did not know this because she was taking the rest she needed after a week of strain.

Jake was his first visitor next morning and Dick asked for a cigarette.

"I'm well enough to do what I like again," he said. "I expect you came here now and then."

"I did, but they would only let me see you once. I suppose you know you were very ill?"

"Yes; I feel like that. But I dare say you saw Kenwardine. It looks as if this is his house."

"It is. We brought you here because it's near the street where you got stabbed."

Dick said nothing for a minute, and then asked: "What's Kenwardine doing in Santa Brigida?"

"It's hard to say. Like other foreigners in the town, he's probably here for what he can get; looking for concessions or a trading monopoly of some kind."

"Ah!" said Dick. "I'm not sure. But do you like him?"

"Yes. He strikes me as a bit of an adventurer, but so are the rest of them, and he's none the worse for that. Trying to get ahead of dago politicians is a risky job."

"Is he running this place as a gambling house?"

"No," said Jake warmly; "that's much too strong. There is some card play evenings, and I've lost a few dollars myself, but the stakes are moderate and anything he makes on the bank wouldn't be worth while. He enjoys a game, that's all. So do other people; we're not all like you."

"Did you see Miss Kenwardine when you came for a game?"

"I did, but I want to point out that I came to see you. She walked through the patio, where we generally sat, and spoke to us pleasantly, but seldom stopped more than a minute. A matter of politeness, I imagine, and no doubt she'd sooner have stayed away."

"Kenwardine ought to keep her away. One wonders why he brought the girl to a place like this."

Jake frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps your remark is justified, in a sense, but you mustn't carry the idea too far. He's not using his daughter as an attraction; it's unthinkable."

"That is so," agreed Dick.

"Well," said Jake, "I allow that our talking about it is in pretty bad taste, but my view is this: Somehow, I don't think Kenwardine has much money and he may feel he has to give the girl a chance."

"To marry some gambling rake?"

"No," said Jake sharply. "It doesn't follow that a man is trash because he stakes a dollar or two now and then, and there are some pretty straight fellows in Santa Brigida." Then he paused and grinned. "Take yourself, for example; you've talent enough to carry you some way, and I'm open to allow you're about as sober as a man could be."

"As it happens, I'm not eligible," Dick rejoined with a touch of grimness. "Kenwardine wouldn't think me worth powder and shot, and I've a disadvantage you don't know of yet."

"Anyhow, it strikes me you're taking a rather strange line. Kenwardine let us bring you here when you were badly hurt, and Miss Kenwardine has given herself a good deal of trouble about you. In fact, I guess you owe it to her that you're recovering."

"That's true, I think," said Dick. "I can't remember much about my illness, but I've a notion that she took very good care of me. Still, there's no reason I should give her further trouble when I'm getting better, and I want you to make arrangements for carrying me back to the dam. Perhaps a hammock would be the best plan."

"You're not fit to be moved yet."

"I'm going, anyhow," Dick replied with quiet resolution.

After trying in vain to persuade him, Jake went away, and soon afterwards Kenwardine came in. The light was strong and Dick noted the touches of gray in his short, dark hair, but except for this he looked young and athletic. His figure was graceful, his dress picturesque, for he wore white duck with a colored silk shirt and red sash, and he had an easy, good-humored manner. Sitting down close by, he gave Dick a friendly smile.

"I'm glad to find you looking better, but am surprised to hear you think of leaving us," he said.

"My work must be falling behind and Stuyvesant has nobody to put in my place."

"He sent word that they were getting on all right," Kenwardine remarked.

"I'm afraid he was overstating it with a good motive. Then, you see, I have given you and Miss Kenwardine a good deal of trouble and can't take advantage of your kindness any longer. It would be an unfair advantage, because I'm getting well. Of course I'm very grateful, particularly as I have no claim on you."

"That is a point you can hardly urge. You are a countryman, and your cousin is a friend of mine. I think on that ground we are justified in regarding you as an acquaintance."

Dick was silent for a few moments. He felt that had things been different he would have liked Kenwardine. The man had charm and had placed him under a heavy obligation. Dick admitted this frankly, but could not stay any longer in his house. He had, however, a better reason for going than his dislike to accepting Kenwardine's hospitality. Clare had robbed him and he must get away before he thought of her too much. It was an awkward situation and he feared he had not tact enough to deal with it.

"The truth is, I've no wish to renew my acquaintance with people I met in England, and I went to America in order to avoid doing so," he said. "You know what happened before I left."

"Yes; but I think you are exaggerating its importance. After all, you're not the only man who has, through nothing worse than carelessness, had a black mark put against his name. You may have a chance yet of showing that the thing was a mistake."

"Then I must wait until the chance comes," Dick answered firmly.

"Very well," said Kenwardine. "Since this means you're determined to go, we must try to make it as easy as possible for you. I'll see the doctor and Mr. Fuller."

He went out, and by and by Clare came in and noted a difference in Dick. He had generally greeted her as eagerly as his weakness allowed, and showed his dependence on her, but now his face was hard and resolute. The change was puzzling and disturbing.

"My father tells me you want to go away," she remarked.

"I don't want to, but I must," Dick answered with a candor he had not meant to show. "You see, things I ought to be looking after will all go wrong at the dam."

"Isn't that rather egotistical?" Clare asked with a forced smile. "I have seen Mr. Bethune, who doesn't look overworked and probably doesn't mind the extra duty. In fact, he said so."

"People sometimes say such things, but when they have to do a good deal more than usual they mind very much. Anyhow, it isn't fair to ask them, and that's one reason for my going away."

Clare colored and her eyes began to sparkle. "Do you think we mind?"

"I don't," Dick answered awkwardly, feeling that he was not getting on very well. "I know how kind you are and that you wouldn't shirk any trouble. But still——"

"Suppose we don't think it a trouble?"

Dick knitted his brows. It was hard to believe that the girl who sat watching him with a puzzled look was an adventuress. He had made her blush, and had come near to making her angry, while an adventuress would not have shown her feelings so easily. The light that shone through the window touched her face, and he noted its delicate modeling, the purity of her skin, and the softness of her eyes. The sparkle had gone, and they were pitiful. Clare had forgiven his ingratitude because he was ill.

"Well," he said, "what you think doesn't alter the fact that I have given you trouble and kept you awake looking after me at night. I wasn't always quite sensible, but I remember how often you sat here and brought me cool things to drink. Indeed, I expect you helped to save my life." He paused and resumed in a voice that thrilled with feeling: "This wasn't all you did. When I was having a very bad time before I left England and everybody believed the worst, you sent me a letter saying that you knew I was innocent."

"You told me you tore up the letter," Clare remarked quietly.

Dick's face got red. He had not taken the line he meant to take and was obviously making a mess of things.

"Are you sure I wasn't delirious?"

"I don't think so. Did you tear up the letter?"

He gave her a steady look, for he saw that he must nerve himself to face the situation. It was unfortunate that he was too ill to deal with it properly, but he must do the best he could.

"I'll answer that if you'll tell me how you knew I was innocent."

Clare looked puzzled, as if his manner had jarred; and Dick saw that she was not acting. Her surprise was real. He could not understand this, but felt ashamed of himself.

"In a sense, of course, I didn't know," she answered with a touch of embarrassment. "Still, I felt you didn't steal the plans. It seemed impossible."

"Thank you," said Dick, who was silent for the next few moments. He thought candor was needed and had meant to be frank, but he could not wound the girl who had taken care of him.

"Anyhow, I lost the papers and that was almost as bad," he resumed feebly. "When you get into trouble people don't care much whether you're a rogue or a fool. You're in disgrace and that's all that matters. However, I mustn't bore you with my grumbling. I'm getting better and they want me at the dam."

"Then I suppose you must go as soon as you are able," Clare agreed, and began to talk about something else.

She left him soon and Dick lay still, frowning. It had been a trying interview and he doubted if he had come through it well, but hoped Clare would make allowances for his being ill. He did not want her to think him ungrateful, and had certainly no wish to punish her for what had happened in the past. But she had stolen his papers and he must get away.

He was taken away next morning, with the consent of the doctor, who agreed that the air would be more invigorating on the hill. Clare did not come down to see him off and Dick felt strangely disappointed, although she had wished him a quick recovery on the previous evening. Kenwardine, however, helped him into his hammock and after the carriers started went back to the room where Clare sat. He noted that although the sun was hot the shutter was not drawn across the window, which commanded the street.

"Well," he said, "Mr. Brandon has gone and on the whole that's a relief."

"Do you know why he went so soon?" Clare asked.

Kenwardine sat down and looked at her thoughtfully. He was fond of Clare, though he found her something of an embarrassment now and then. He was not rich and ran certain risks that made his ability to provide for her doubtful, while she had no marked talents to fall back upon if things went against him. There was, however, the possibility that her beauty might enable her to make a good marriage, and although Kenwardine could not do much at present to forward this plan he must try to prevent any undesirable entanglement. Brandon, for example, was not to be thought of, but he suspected Clare of some liking for the young man.

"Yes," he said, "I know and sympathize with him. In fact, I quite see why he found it difficult to stay. The situation was only tolerable while he was very ill."

"Why?"

Kenwardine meant to tell her. It was better that she should smart a little now than suffer worse afterwards.

"As soon as he began to get better Brandon remembered that we were the cause of his misfortunes. You can see how this complicated things."

"But we had nothing to do with them," Clare said sharply. "What made him think we had?"

"It's not an illogical conclusion when he imagines that he lost his papers in our house."

Clare got up with a red flush in her face and her eyes sparkling. "It's absurd!" she exclaimed. "He must have been delirious when he said so."

"He didn't say so in as many words; Brandon has some taste. But he was perfectly sensible and intended me to see what he meant."

The girl stood still, trembling with anger and confusion, and Kenwardine felt sorry for her. She was worse hurt than he had expected, but she would rally.

"But he couldn't have been robbed while he was with us," she said with an effort, trying to understand Dick's point of view. "He hadn't an overcoat, so the plans must have been in the pocket of his uniform, and nobody except myself was near him."

She stopped with a gasp as she remembered how she had slipped and seized Dick. In doing so her hand had caught his pocket. Everything was plain now, and for a few moments she felt overwhelmed. Her face blanched, but her eyes were hard and very bright.

Kenwardine left her, feeling that Brandon would have cause to regret his rashness if he ever attempted to renew her acquaintance, and Clare sat down and tried to conquer her anger. This was difficult, because she had received an intolerable insult. Brandon thought her a thief! It was plain that he did so, because the change in his manner bore out all her father had said, and there was no other explanation. Then she blushed with shame as she realized that from his point of view her unconventional behavior warranted his suspicions. She had asked him to come into the garden and had written him a note! This was horribly foolish and she must pay for it, but she had been mistaken about his character.

She had, as a rule, avoided the men she met at her father's house and had shrunk with frank repugnance from one or two, but Brandon had seemed different. Then he had watched for her when he was ill and she had seen his heavy eyes get brighter when she came into the room. Now, however, she understood him better. She had some beauty and he had been satisfied with her physical attractiveness, although he thought her a thief. This was worse than the coarse admiration of the men she had feared. It was unthinkably humiliating, but her anger helped her to bear the blow. After all, she was fortunate in finding out what Brandon was, since it might have been worse had the knowledge come later. There was a sting in this that rankled, but she could banish him from her thoughts now.



CHAPTER XII

DICK KEEPS HIS PROMISE

Twinkling points of light that pierced the darkness lower down the hill marked the colored laborers' camp, and voices came up faintly through the still air. The range cut off the land breeze, though now and then a wandering draught flickered down the hollow spanned by the dam, and a smell of hot earth and damp jungle hung about the veranda of Dick's iron shack. He sat near a lamp, with a drawing-board on his knee, while Jake lounged in a canvas chair, smoking and occasionally glancing at the sheet of figures in his hand. His expression was gloomily resigned.

"I suppose you'll have things ready for us in the morning," Dick said presently.

"Francois' accounts are checked and I'm surprised to find them right, but I imagine the other calculations will not be finished. Anyhow, it won't make much difference whether they are or not. I guess you know that!"

"Well, of course, if you can't manage to do the lot——"

"I don't say it's impossible," Jake rejoined. "But beginning work before breakfast is bad enough, without going on after dinner. Understand that I don't question your authority to find me a job at night; it's your object that makes me kick."

"We want the calculations made before we set the boys to dig."

"Then why didn't you give me them when I was doing nothing this afternoon?" Jake inquired.

"I hadn't got the plans ready."

"Just so. You haven't had things ready for me until after dinner all this week. As you're a methodical fellow that's rather strange. Still, if you really want the job finished, I'll have to do my best, but I'm going out first for a quarter of an hour."

"You needn't," Dick said dryly. "If you mean to tell the engineer not to wait, he's gone. I sent him off some time since."

"Of course you had a right to send him off," Jake replied in an injured tone. "But I don't quite think——"

"You know what your father pays for coal. Have you reckoned what it costs to keep a locomotive two or three hours for the purpose of taking you to Santa Brigida and back?"

"I haven't, but I expect the old man wouldn't stand for my running a private car," Jake admitted. "However, it's the only way of getting into town."

"You were there three nights last week. What's more, you tried to draw your next month's wages. That struck me as significant, though I'd fortunately provided against it."

"So I found out. I suppose I ought to be grateful for your thoughtfulness but can't say I am. I wanted the money because I had a run of wretched luck."

"At the casino?"

"No," said Jake, shortly.

"Then you were at Kenwardine's; I'll own that's what I wanted to prevent. He's a dangerous man and his house is no place for you."

"One would hardly expect you to speak against him. Considering everything, it's perhaps not quite in good taste."

Dick put down the drawing-board and looked at him steadily. "It's very bad taste. In fact, I find myself in a very awkward situation. Your father gave me a fresh start when I needed it badly, and agreed when your sister put you in my charge."

"Ida's sometimes a bit officious," Jake remarked.

"Well," Dick continued, "I promised to look after you, and although I didn't know what I was undertaking, the promise must be kept. It's true that Kenwardine afterwards did me a great service; but his placing me under an obligation doesn't relieve me from the other, which I'd incurred first."

Somewhat to his surprise, Jake nodded agreement. "No, not from your point of view. But what makes you think Kenwardine is dangerous?"

"I can't answer. You had better take it for granted that I know what I'm talking about, and keep away from him."

"As a matter of fact, it was Miss Kenwardine to whom you owed most," Jake said meaningly. "Do you suggest that she's dangerous, too?"

Dick frowned and his face got red, but he said nothing, and Jake resumed: "There's a mystery about the matter and you know more than you intend to tell; but if you blame the girl for anything, you're absolutely wrong. If you'll wait a minute, I'll show you what I mean."

He went into the shack and came back with a drawing-block which he stood upon the table under the lamp, and Dick saw that it was a water-color portrait of Clare Kenwardine. He did not know much about pictures, but it was obvious that Jake had talent. The girl stood in the patio, with a pale-yellow wall behind her, over which a vivid purple creeper trailed. Her lilac dress showed the graceful lines of her slender figure against the harmonious background, and matched the soft blue of her eyes and the delicate white and pink of her skin. The patio was flooded with strong sunlight, but the girl looked strangely fresh and cool.

"I didn't mean to show you this, but it's the best way of explaining what I think," Jake said with some diffidence. "I'm weak in technique, because I haven't been taught, but I imagine I've got sensibility. It's plain that when you paint a portrait you must study form and color, but there's something else that you can only feel. I don't mean the character that's expressed by the mouth and eyes; it's something vague and elusive that psychologists give you a hint of when they talk about the aura. Of course you can't paint it, but unless it, so to speak, glimmers through the work, your portrait's dead."

"I don't quite understand; but sometimes things do give you an impression you can't analyze," Dick replied.

"Well, allowing for poor workmanship, all you see here's harmonious. The blues and purples and yellows tone, and yet, if I've got the hot glare of the sun right, you feel that the figure's exotic and doesn't belong to the scene. The latter really needs an olive-skinned daughter of the passionate South; but the girl I've painted ought to walk in the moonlight through cool forest glades."

Dick studied the picture silently, for he remembered with disturbing emotion that he had felt what Jake suggested when he first met Clare Kenwardine. She was frank, but somehow remote and aloof; marked by a strange refinement he could find no name for. He was glad that Jake did not seem to expect him to speak, but after a few moments the latter wrapped up the portrait and took it away. When he came back he lighted a cigarette.

"Now," he said, "do you think it's sensible to distrust a girl like that? Admitting that her father makes a few dollars by gambling, can you believe that living with him throws any taint on her?"