“There is nothing new so far as I am aware.” “Mr. Robles, excuse me,” said Munson earnestly. “But I’m anxious on Dick’s account. You know of his whereabouts, of course?” “I have indicated as much, although for the present I prefer to say nothing.” “Well, when is he to be restored to liberty?” “In due time. At latest he will be free on the eleventh of October.” “Oh, that’s months ahead yet. But why the eleventh of October? You excite my curiosity.” “The date is not of my choosing—it was fixed many years ago, by another than myself.” The enigmatic reply puzzled Chester Munson—not only the words themselves, but the tremor of deep emotion in the voice of Ricardo Robles as he gave them utterance. CHAPTER XXVII—Among the Old Oaks PIERRE, now my sketches and plans are finished, how am I going to pass the time?” It was some ten days after the affair at La Siesta, and Dick had spent the interval in close and absorbed work over his drawing board. Happy in his occupation, he had not felt the restraints of confinement. But now that the task was completed, and the big cardboard cylinder containing the set of drawings rested on the ledge of the easel all ready to be sent away on its mission, a feeling of chafing restlessness had ensued. “Good Lord, a fellow can’t read all day,” Dick went on, half in soliloquy, half addressing his companion. “Monsieur is comfortable here?” asked the latter solicitously. “I should say, old fellow. I was never in better quarters in all my life.” “And zere is nothing more I could get for ze table?” “For goodness sake, don’t talk like that, Pierre! In any ease I don’t worry about what I eat. But this is a regular Delmonico’s. Guadalupe is certainly a crackerjack cook. She is even better than Sing Ling. Wherever did she learn to turn out all these little delicacies? And just my favorite dishes, too.” Pierre smiled enigmatically. “Guadalupe very clever old squaw,” he remarked. “I would like to know her better. But she keeps out of my sight all the time.” “Guadalupe is very old. She has her fixed ideas.” “I suppose that means she does not love the Americans.” “No doubt. She prefer to be alone—alone with ze white wolf all ze time. And where the white wolf is, monsieur dare not go.” “I understand that all right,” laughed Willoughby. “I strolled only once toward the log fire, and the brute showed me a set of teeth which I never wish to see again.” “Ze white wolf guard ze cave well,” remarked Pierre, sententiously. “Oh, I’m not thinking of trying to run away. You know I would never break my word. But what the dickens am I to do all day long?” “What do you say? Suppose we go to ze riffle and wash out some gold.” “Great Scott!” exclaimed Dick eagerly. “That’s not a bad suggestion. But Don Manuel won’t mind?” “He will be very pleased—he has no use for ze gold.” “And Guadalupe?” “Long ago she would have killed you if you had gone zere. But not now. She very old, and all her people are dead.”