“Yes,” assented Mr. Robles, with an almost grim smile of satisfaction. “The telescope teaches one not merely to observe, but to reason from the facts observed. Tia Teresa evidently thought that she should have come along today to play duenna, eh, Merle?” “You don’t say you guessed that?” exclaimed Merle in great astonishment. “Guessed it! I knew it when she raised her protesting finger.” “You are a magician, Mr. Robles,” cried Grace. “No, only a logician,” was the sententious rejoinder. “Please let me peep at our garden,” asked Merle. “I wonder if mother is among her roses.” Without a word Robles swung round the instrument on its pivot and changed the focus. “That’s about right,” he said, stepping back. “There is no one out of doors at present. Move the glass slightly and you can see over the entire garden.” Each girl in turn made a prolonged scrutiny; they were enchanted with the clearness and marvellous detail of the picture. “Henceforth we’ll have to be on our best behavior, Dick,” laughed Munson, as they turned toward the winding stairway. “We’ve got to remember Mr. Robles has a constant eye on us.” “Perhaps I’ve had you under observation quite a while,” laughed the senor, tapping the young fellow on the shoulder. Then he threw open the door, and, with a slight bow and extended hand, motioned to his visitors to descend. At the foot of the narrow, winding staircase they found the Mexican youth standing on guard. He bowed low as the ladies passed, and when Mr. Robles followed last of all, saluted, and then immediately returned to the chamber above, again without a single word of instruction from his master. Munson and Willoughby exchanged meaning looks; obviously a well-disciplined outlook was kept from the observatory all the time, as if from the conning-tower of a battleship. Again the party was in the patio. Mr. Robles turned to Willoughby. “I hope Grace and Merle have explained to you that at present I do not entertain. My own fare is of the simplest.” “Mother is to have luncheon ready at one,” interposed Grace. “I caught the broiled trout myself this morning.” “You caught them ready broiled, eh?” laughed Munson. “Oh, you know what I mean,” rejoined Grace, with a pretty little moue. “Broiled trout!” exclaimed Dick, appreciatively. “Then I think we’ll be hurrying down the hill, senor.” He had recognized with intuitive courtesy that the interview was at an end. “Is he not delightful?” asked Merle, as their horses started off at a walk. “And you would never guess how sweet and kind he can be.” “I don’t doubt it,” assented Willoughby. “A polished gentleman, but a man of mystery, isn’t he?” “Not when you come to know him. A recluse always has his little idiosyncrasies.” As she spoke, she set her pony at a canter down the gentle incline.