He became conscious that Guadalupe’s fury had spent itself, and turned round. The squaw was gone. His eyes searched the scrub; at one place he saw the twigs bending, and he even fancied he could detect the outline of the white wolf gliding away through the brushwood. But that was all. Again the sound of the automobile smote his ears; louder now, and only a few hundred yards away he beheld the headlights sweeping toward the spot where he stood. He resolved to intercept the vehicle and stepped across the belt of chaparral that intervened between him and the roadway. Gaining the thoroughfare, he called aloud and the machine slowed down. But what was his utter amazement when Merle jumped’ from the runabout. To her there could be no more surprises on this night of surprises. “Dick,” she exclaimed, as she accepted his embrace almost as a matter of course. “How do you come to be here, Merle, my darling?” he asked, holding her in his arms. “Something terrible is going to happen. I have come to try to prevent it. Have you seen Don Manuel?” “Don Manuel!” He repeated the name in great surprise. “Mr. Robles is Don Manuel,” she gasped by way of explanation. “I am aware. He told me so today.” “Well, where is he now? And his enemy, Mr. Thurston?” Dick still had an arm on her shoulder. She was gazing up into his face, her voice trembling with emotion as she breathlessly plied him with her questions. “You have come too late, dearest,” Willoughby gently replied. “Dead!” she exclaimed. “Both are dead. They fought and rolled over the precipice. I have just found their bodies lying in the chaparral back there.” Merle leaned forward, sobbing on his breast. “Take me to him, take me to him,” she cried. “No, Merle, my dear. It is better not. You must go home. Tia Teresa,” he added, addressing the duenna who had drawn near, “she must go home. Munson has gone to Tejon for help. There will be people arriving here very soon now.” “He is really dead—Don Manuel?” asked Tia Teresa in a voice of awed sadness. “There can be nothing but the one answer,” replied Dick. “Don Manuel has passed on.” “Take me to him,” moaned Merle. “No, no, Merle. This is no sight for you.” “But, Dick, Dick, don’t you know one other thing?” she pleaded, raising her tearful eyes. “What other thing?” “Don Manuel—was my father—my dear, dear father.” Again Willoughby was overwhelmed with amazement. “Your father?” he murmured. “Yes, I only came to know it today. So, Dick, dear, even though he is dead, let me kiss him now, let me kneel by his side and tell him that I loved him, and will always love and revere his memory. Let me watch by him until the others come.” Dick drew the sobbing girl close to him. His eyes sought those of Tia Teresa. He shook his head, telling the duenna in an unmistakable way that Merle must be taken home—that she must not be shocked by the gruesome spectacle hidden in the chaparral.