Eating, drinking, and talking paused for the moment while Don Anabel’s family turned to glance politely at the visitor. He stood in the doorway, tall, reddish blond, an Americano. Loutish, dressed in soiled buckskins, a trader, perhaps only a trapper. What did the fellow want? Don Anabel rose haughtily to dispose of this unwelcome intrusion. The visitor was bowing from the waist with rather surprising good form. In excellent Spanish he inquired: “Don Anabel Lopez? You will pardon the intrusion, I trust. I was shown in by the _moso_. I was sent by Colonel St. Vrain to inquire if we could obtain further warehouse space from you this evening. He----” At this point Steven’s eyes were drawn, as though compelled, to the girl seated there in the mellow candlelight. She was looking at him, too. The girl, the same girl, he had seen that afternoon. She lived here, then. His heart quickened at sight of her, and he was not conscious that he stared, that he had not finished his speech. The whole scene bewildered him. After the crudities of the trail, and the primitive life at Bent’s Fort he was unprepared for this luxury, this glowing, beautiful scene. Why, they did not eat from silver dishes even in New Orleans, where there were silver doorknobs in his father’s house. Don Anabel’s voice came coldly, with finality. “Colonel St. Vrain had better secure space from our amiable Viscarra. I have none available.” Steven found his tongue. “Colonel St. Vrain said to say to you, señor, that Colonel Viscarra, whom we encountered on the road just outside Santa Fe this afternoon, instructed him to get accommodations from you, stating that he knew you would, at his request, be most happy to--to make them available. Colonel Viscarra said he would not return to Santa Fe for some weeks, perhaps, as he was going down among the Indians of Texas.” At this hint from the _jefe politico_ of Santa Fe, Don Anabel could only bow silent assent. “Very well. If Viscarra wishes it, St. Vrain may use the space which I reserve to be at the _jefe’s_ disposal.” He turned back to the table, but Steven refused the evident dismissal, addressing his unwilling host again. “Señor, pardon once more if I intrude. But can you tell me aught of one Tiburcio de Garcia? I have some small business with him.” Don Tiburcio himself rose. He had taken the measure of the youth and now came forward. “Señor, I am Tiburcio Garcia, _a sus ordenes_.” He looked inquiringly at the young man. Steven again bowed and said, quietly, “Señor, might I see you later in the evening for a moment?” And lower, “I bear a message for you from Orleans.” Don Tiburcio’s eyes gleamed, but his reply was inaudible to those at the table. He showed the young man out with every courtesy. * * * * *