In tense silence they waited and watched. The leaden-winged minutes stole on. For a time lights flitted about, then vanished. At last came the “honk-honk” of the automobile, and a minute later the great machine with its flaring headlights swept down the roadway. They could just see that it was crowded with men. Then in a few seconds it had disappeared around the bend. “Now we go,” said Pierre. “Just a minute longer, please,” replied Dick in a firm tone. “Tia Teresa, you slip back to the house. I will stay here till you bring me word from Merle that she is safe and that all is well.” “I will soon return,” said the duenna as she hurried away on her mission. Again an interval of high-tensioned waiting. Neither Dick nor Pierre spoke a word. At last there came a rustle of the bushes from the direction of the river bed, and a moment later Tia Teresa was again by their side. “Mr. Willoughby,” she said, breathless from the speed she had made, “Miss Merle begs you to make good your escape. She is well, and happy because you are safe. She sends this rose and”—the old lady hesitated a moment—“her love.” “She said that?” murmured Dick, tremblingly, as he took the white blossom and breathed its fragrance. “Well, does not the flower speak her love?” replied the duenna. “Now go, go.” “Come,” said Pierre, as he raised himself into the saddle. “We shall fix the blindfold later on.” Dick furtively kissed the rose before he placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. Then he mounted, and, bringing his pony alongside of Pierre’s, started off at a canter across the starlit plain. Ben Thurston did not feel inclined to sleep that night. He paced his sitting room like an angry bear, and kept Leach Sharkey out of bed to listen to his growls and threatenings. “By God, I’ll have that girl shoved into jail. Harboring an outlaw! It’s a criminal offence.” “You can’t do it,” objected the sleuth. “Can’t do it?” shouted Thurston, halting and glowering down upon the man who had dared to contradict him. “You’ll see damned quick if I can’t.” “Not one of us could swear that Willoughby was there. Neither you nor I could. We never saw him.” “He wore that disguise,” thundered Thurston. “So you think. But thinking ain’t proof—not by a long chalk.” Thurston was now almost speechless from rage. Half articulate words of blasphemy were upon his stuttering lips. But Sharkey went coolly on. “Besides the sympathy of everyone would be with the girl. You can’t succeed that way. You yourself would be covered with ridicule.”