It was indeed a glorious scene—that noble sweep of verdured plain, stretching north far as the eye could reach, on the south guarded by the rugged pass, east and west embosoming hills twenty miles apart etching the sky with peaks and domes and lines of beauty. For a few moments all three visitors to the tower remained silent and enraptured. Grace was the one to break the spell. “I’m going down now to the library to inspect your work, lieutenant,” she announced with a roguish smile. “Spare me,” protested Munson. “But perhaps you would help me with some of those Spanish books,” he added as an afterthought. “Delighted! Come along.” And she led the way down the winding iron staircase. In the library the three were for the first time during the visit quite alone. Munson carefully closed the door. “Now I’ve got the chance, Miss Merle,” he began, “I want to compliment you on your splendid bravery last night.” “Bravery!” she laughed. “Why I was so scared I could hardly stand.” “Well, you deceived us all finely, then.” “And that Ben Thurston—what an old ruffian!” cried Grace. “But I agree with you, Mr. Munson; Merle was a hero.” “A heroine,” suggested the lieutenant. “Oh, in these days we don’t make such fine sex distinctions,” laughed Grace. “A real hero, that’s what I call her.” “Rubbish,” protested Merle. “I just did what anyone else would have done in the circumstances.” “I’m afraid men are not so ready of wit in an emergency as are women,” remarked Munson. “Just listen to that, Merle,” exclaimed Grace. “I verily believe the lieutenant is a suffragette.” “A suffragist,” corrected Munson, emphatically this time. “I’m hanged if I’m going to wear a petticoat even if the women are determined to don—the other things.” They all laughed merrily. Grace turned and began examining the carefully written library cards. “Any more news from Mr. Willoughby?” asked Merle, with a look of solicitude in her eyes. “Nothing,” replied Munson. “But I’m beginning to put two and two together,” he continued. “Early every morning a horseman comes down here from the mountains and evidently brings a report of some kind to Mr. Robles. And when he rides off again Sing Ling has always ready a basket of grub, all sorts of nice things, fried chicken, spiced beef—” “Sounds quite epicurean,” interrupted Grace, tossing away the card she had been pretending to examine. “Yes, hang it all—just the little delicacies Dick used to like.” “I never knew you fared so bountifully at San Antonio Rancho,” remarked Merle with a smile. “Oh, Dick’s no candy kid, as you know well,” replied Munson. “It was mostly rough and ready fare all right, but Sing Ling had a knack of adding a few dainty trifles to our meals, and it strikes me that for the purposes of this mysterious and capacious lunch basket he is trying to excel himself.” “No doubt it goes to Mr. Willoughby,” said Merle. “Well, I’m real glad to know that they are making him comfortable.”