Mrs. Darlington had advanced from her lamp-lit table. “What?” she enquired eagerly. “Somehow I had a sense of impending trouble all day long.” “Young Thurston of the rancho has met with an accident.” “Dead?” gasped Merle, her hands clasped against her bosom. “Yes, dead, I am afraid. He was mysteriously shot this afternoon when riding through the pine woods.” Merle was stricken dumb. Grace glided to her side and listened in silent expectancy. “Shot! By whom?” asked Mrs. Darlington. “That I cannot tell,” gravely replied Robles. Then he smiled faintly. “But an amazingly stupid blunder has been made. By some combination of circumstances suspicion is being fastened on our dear friend Dick Willoughby.” “Dick!” exclaimed Merle. “Who dares to suggest such a thing?” she added indignantly. “I infer that Mr. Thurston is his accuser,” replied Robles. “The two young men quarreled,” murmured Mrs. Darlington, in a voice of deep agitation. “Mother!” cried Merle reprovingly. “Even to think for one moment that Dick, whatever the provocation, could have done such a thing! He is absolutely innocent, Mr. Robles,” she went on decisively, again turning to their visitor. “Of course he is innocent—absolutely innocent. No one knows that better than myself.” And he gave an enigmatic smile as he spoke the words of reassuring confidence. “Where is Mr. Willoughby now?” queried Grace. “He has been compelled to go to Bakersfield.” “To Bakersfield?” exclaimed Merle, half wonderingly. “There to prove his innocence,” replied Robles. But Mrs. Darlington had probed the real significance of his words. “You don’t mean to say that they have—arrested him?” Robles nodded gravely. “That’s how the law acts. A man under suspicion must be taken into custody—he must be charged so that he can refute the shameful calumny.” Merle had dropped into a settee—white and speechless. Her lips trembled. Then she burst into a passion of weeping, burying her face against an arm flung across the upholstery. Mrs. Darlington moved forward quickly to comfort the sobbing girl. “Oh, don’t take on like this, my dear child. The arrest was a mere formality. He will be immediately set at liberty.” Merle raised her tear-stained face. She spoke in gulping sobs. “But, mother, I never told you—I shrank from telling any of you. While you and Grace were away this afternoon, Marshall Thurston called and wanted to make love to me—he even dared to try to kiss me. Tia Teresa flung him out of the rose garden. It was I who made Tia Teresa promise to say nothing about it to anyone. I feared trouble. And, oh, trouble, terrible trouble, has already come.” Again she bowed her head and continued weeping, but quietly weeping now. Grace was bending over her, patting her shoulder in soothing sympathy. Mrs. Darlington’s eyes met those of Robles. “This may prove serious,” she said softly, that Merle might not overhear.