“There will be plenty of time,” she murmured to herself. “I shall be best able to manage Tia Teresa when I know still more than I do now.” She repaired to her own room and put on her automobile cloak, cap, and veil. Without telling anyone of her plan, she left the house, went to the garage, selected a runabout that was specially her own, and was soon speeding along the highway in the direction of the cluster of hills amid which the little Mexican cemetery was nestled. She had been there just once before, several years ago, and she knew that her machine would have no difficulty in ascending the trail. Within less than an hour, indeed, she was at her destination. In the grey evening twilight the place looked very dismal and desolate. The tiny adobe chapel in one corner was falling into ruins because of disuse and neglect. A tall rank growth of weeds overran most of the graves. But there were two that showed marks of loving attention, and toward these Merle advanced. Here she found the fresh wreaths around the headstones, and her own roses scattered on the turf. “Hermana”—she read the single word on the white marble cross adorned with spotless arum lilies. “Sister,” Merle murmured, translating the word. Then she turned to the big gravestone close at hand, and moved the wreaths of red carnations so that she might read the words inscribed. From these she soon knew that this was the family burial place of the de Valencias—that here rested the former owners of the San Antonio Rancho, the beloved parents of two children, Manuel and Rosetta. “Manuel,” “Rosetta”—she repeated the names. The latter awakened no memory, but when she filled out the former to “Don Manuel de Valencia,” she instantly recalled the old-time bandit of whom she had heard many a tale. “The White Wolf,” she murmured eagerly. “Yes, yes. His father once owned the rancho, and that was the cause of the deadly feud—the Vendetta of the Hills. But I thought all that was forgotten. Yet here are the beautiful fresh flowers.” Seating herself on a flat monument near by, Merle pondered, piecing things together. “Sister”—the cross must mark the grave of the girl Rosetta, and have been erected by her brother, Don Manuel. Then whose hand had strewn the roses? Mr. Robles! In a flash she knew that Mr. Robles was Don Manuel.