“Not right away. Colonel, I’ll ask you to go to the office and notify me as soon as Señor O’Halloran arrives.” He waited till the colonel had gone before adding: “I’m going to leave this boy with you, señorita, for a while. He’ll explain some things to you that I can’t. In about an hour I’ll be back, perhaps sooner. So long, Curly. Tell the lady your secret.” And with that Bucky was out of the room. “Your secret, child! What does he mean?” The flame of color that swept into the cheeks of Frances, the appeal in the shamed eyes, held Carmencita’s surprised gaze. Then coolly it traveled over the girl and came back to her burning face. “So that’s it, is it?” But the scorn in her voice was too much for Frances. She had been judged and condemned in that cool stare, and all the woman in her protested at its injustice. “No, no, no!” she cried, running forward and catching at the other’s hand. “I’m not that. You don’t understand.” Coldly Carmencita disengaged her hand and wiped it with her kerchief. “I understand enough. Please do not touch me.” “May I not tell you my story?” “I’ll not trouble you. It does not interest me.” “But you will listen?” implored the other. “I must ask to be excused.” “Then you are a heartless, cruel woman,” flamed Frances. “I’m good—as good as you are.” The color patched her cheek and ebbed again. “I wouldn’t treat a dog as you do me. Oh, cruel, cruel!” The surprising extravagance of her protest, the despair that rang in the fresh young voice, caught the interest of the Mexican girl. Surely such a heart-broken cry did not consist with guilt. But the facts—when a young and pretty girl masquerades through the country in the garb of a boy with a handsome young man, not much room for doubt is left. Frances was quick to see that the issue was reopened. “Oh, señorita, it isn’t as you think. Do I look like—” She broke off to cover with her hands a face in which the pink and white warred with alternate success. “I ought not to have come. I ought never to have come. I see that now. But I didn’t think he would know. You see, I had always passed as a boy when I wanted to.” “A remarkably pretty one, child,” said Miss Carmencita, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “But how do you mean that you had passed as a boy?” Frances explained, giving a rapid sketch of her life with the Hardmans during which she had appeared every night on the stage as a boy without the deception being suspected. She had cultivated the tricks and ways of boys, had tried to dress to carry out the impression, and had always succeeded until she had made the mistake of putting on a gypsy girl’s dress a couple of days before.