Pierre had signified his approval with a nod, and now he carefully bestowed the letter in the pocket of his shirt. “He will get ze letter—he will surely be zere.” “Then you say I cannot write to Merle—Miss Farnsworth, I mean?” “I have ze strictest orders,” replied Pierre. “Nozing must be told just yet. Bah! It is only two days more.” “Two mighty long days for me, old sport,” said Dick, half in jest and half in sober earnest, as he sat down and began cutting at a plug of tobacco. Most of next day Willoughby was alone. But at the regular dinner hour Pierre appeared, and announced that he had safely packed the valise and the gold in four bags to the old store, and Jack Rover had been apprised of Dick’s coming on the following night. “He knew what was in ze sacks,” laughed Pierre. “Zey were so very heavy, oh my! But I told him I would come back and shoot him like a jack-rabbit if he opened zem before you came.” “Guess it needed an old bandit like you to scare Jack Rover,” replied Dick, jocularly. But he was very happy—everything was going along well—only another four-and-twenty hours now and his captivity would be at an end. That night Dick could hardly sleep a wink, and next morning he was too restless and impatient for his approaching liberation to keep within the confines of the little grotto. In the darkness of the big central cavern he walked up and down, casting occasional glances at the distant glow of the log fire where, as he could see, both the aged squaw and the white wolf were on vigilant and ceaseless guard. Suddenly his steps were arrested. With great surprise he gazed toward the log fire. There, with Guadalupe and the white wolf, stood the figure of a strange man, cloaked and wearing a big sombrero. All their shapes were outlined against the ruddy glow, and the monstrous beast was actually fawning at the newcomer’s feet. A moment later the stranger, with a parting wave of his hand to Guadalupe, advanced toward the spot where Dick was standing. Close by was an oil lantern set in a socket of the rock wall to mark the entrance to the inner grotto. For a minute the approaching figure had been swallowed up in the darkness, but now came the sound of his footsteps crunching on the sandy floor, and a few seconds later he appeared in the flickering radiance. Dick Willoughby had already made his inference as to the identity of the newcomer—he had been so often told that no living man but the bandit chief, Don Manuel, could pass the white wolf with impunity. But the name Dick pronounced was quite a different one. “Senor Ricardo Robles—it is you—you?” “It is I,” replied the Spaniard, quietly, as he extended his hand. “Then you are—Don Manuel—the—” Dick faltered and paused.