That evening the four young people were quietly chatting in the cosy corner on the interior verandah—the comfortable little nook fixed up with rugs and tapestries and oriental divans. It was summer now, and after a sultry day the night air was sweet and balmy. Willoughby was smoking a cigar in languid contentment with his surroundings, when all at once he sprang to his feet. Tia Teresa had rushed in, frantic with excitement. “A great big automobile is coming along the road,” she cried, “and there are men watching outside the portico. Come with me,” she went on, addressing Dick. “I know where your horses are hid. I can take you by a secret path through the oleanders.” Dick vaguely wondered why the duenna should know anything about his mode of coming. But there was no time to question, for just then there came the sound of voices outside. Mrs. Darlington, pale and agitated, emerged from the drawing room. “What has happened?” she asked breathlessly. “I guess I’m trapped,” replied Dick quietly. “No doubt it’s old Thurston. There will be shooting if I resist. So there is nothing for it but to surrender.” “No, no,” exclaimed Merle. “I dread that vindictive man. He must never get you in his power again. We must gain time to smuggle you out of the house. I have it. Tia Teresa—give me your mantilla and your cloak. Quick, quick!” A first loud knocking had come on the door at the head of the portico steps. The duenna in a moment had divested herself of her loose black robe and heavy lace veil. “Get something else to wear and meet us at the oleanders,” continued Merle, taking the garments from Tia Teresa. “Put these on, Dick, and sit right there in that corner. Mr. Munson, turn off two or three of the lights. Mother, dear, control yourself. Take this book and be reading. Now, that will do. They will be here in a moment.” A second knock had been heard, and now they knew that the door was being opened without further ceremony, for at placid La Siesta there were no bolts or bars against unwelcome visitors. In that brief minute a wonderful transformation scene had taken place in the cosy corner. Tia Teresa had disappeared. Munson was stretched on a sofa, puffing his cigar. Merle and Grace had been playing patience during the afternoon and had left the cards in scattered confusion. Mrs. Darlington, beneath the single incandescent aglow, was quietly reading. From the darksome corner the pretended duenna surveyed this peaceful scene of domesticity. It was Ben Thurston himself who led the way for his swarm of myrmidons. He began without formality; his tone was coarse and rude. “We want the outlaw, Dick Willoughby. We know he is here. So make no fuss. Deliver him over.” Mrs. Darlington had risen to her feet, and Munson, too, had sprung erect. “What do you mean?” asked the lady with quiet dignity. “You know darned well what I mean.” Munson stepped forward, but he played the game best by keeping himself under perfect control.