Alison did not delay in getting ready for her ride. She expected great results, was so sanguine and built up such possibilities all the way along, that her brother finally told her that she ran ahead of all reason. “I believe you expect her to produce Steve from a box or a bag,” he said, “as if he were a cat or a hen.” “I shall not be surprised at anything,” declared Alison laughing. But when they reached the little adobe hut matters did not look so promising. At first the old woman declared that she had never seen Alison before, that she knew no Americanos and did not wish to know them. She wished to be left in peace and could not be disturbed by curious persons asking questions about what she could not tell. “But surely you do remember me,” said Alison, bending down to look into the skinny yellow face and to catch the expression of the bleary old eyes. “Look at me well,” she insisted. “Don’t you remember the little hut where Pike Smith one day brought a young woman for you to search?” “No, no.” The woman pushed her away and Alison looked at her, surprised and chagrined. “The old wretch,” she said in a whisper to her brother. “John, suppose you go out of hearing for a few minutes; but first give me a little money.” [Illustration: “‘BUT SURELY YOU DO REMEMBER ME.’”] “You are right,” said John, “that is a salve that will often cure poor eyesight.” He slipped a dollar into her hand and walked away. Alison beckoned the old woman to one side, displaying the money as she did so, and was pleased to see that she followed eagerly. “You shall have this,” said the girl, in a low tone, “if you will answer my questions. It does not matter whether you remember me or not; one often forgets faces.” She found herself sufficiently fluent in the use of Spanish to be at no loss for words. “Now, good mother,” she went on, “please tell me if I was the only one Pike Smith ever brought to that hut in the woods. Did he ever bring there a young man about my brother’s age? My brother is over there, you see. This young man of whom I speak was darker than he, and his name was Stephen. It was about a year ago, a little more, perhaps.” The woman shook her head, her eye on the money which Alison held conspicuously. “Tell me this, at least, was it your home or his?” Alison continued her questions. “It was not mine,” Brigida ventured. “Then it must have been his. Can you not tell me something of this man, Smith?” Brigida would not inform upon him; he had been good to her. “Then he must have had some reason for being so,” Alison said conclusively. “I have no doubt he spared that son of yours, and he probably threatened you to expose him if you did not keep silence about those doings of his.” She kept her eye upon the old woman and saw that the shot told. “Now we know all about that son of yours,” she added. “Oh, no, no, señorita,” began Brigida, beginning to show signs of alarm.