She kept Doña Gertrudis up by one pretext and another till her father and Luis returned, well satisfied with the evening’s work. Well, that was that. The plotter had been taken and was even now in the _calabozo_. He had exchanged his comfortable bed at Señora Katarina’s for the bare floor of the _carcel_, as a reward for his scheming. Don Anabel set forth on the nightly round of his house, locking up. “Did he not fight, the Americano?” Consuelo questioned Luis, as Doña Gertrudis slumped back in her chair. “He was asleep,” grinned Luis, “and also has a bad arm--hurt by a fall.” “_Covardes!_” hissed Consuelo, and made a face that her mother might not see. “Cowards, not satisfied with arresting him you must take him asleep. I knew it!” Luis gazed at his sister in astonishment. “_Valgame dios!_ What do you care? What is he to you, this Americano _espiador_? He was visiting his country woman the night before; was coming from there when he was hurt, strangely, and they carried him back to her house, where she herself bound his wounds and cared for him. He returned to his quarters but this evening.” It gave Luis a peculiar cruel relief to stab Consuelo, as his sharp sense told him he was doing, thereby sharing and relieving his own stabbing jealousy. He watched her face as he spoke and then coolly lit a cigarette while she glared at him, her hands clenching under his nose. “What is it to me?” she gasped, in fury. “I will show you. I will prove that he is no spy. It is _you_ who love the _Guerita_. Did I not see you the night of the _baile_? Have I not heard of your threats? Bah!” Tears trembled in her eyes. Unmoved, Luis replied, cynically, “Ah, so it is you who are the little spy, eh?” “It would take no spy to know that you were angry at the _baile_,” came the hot retort. “Oh, Luis, he does not want the Americanita. He has told me. Why did you do it?” She wept openly. This put a different light on the matter. Luis was genuinely sorry. He put his arms sympathetically about his sister and kissed her. “Don’t, little one. See, Luis will help you.” At this moment Doña Gertrudis roused from her napping, Don Anabel returned, and the family bid one another a formal goodnight. The following night, after the longest day that he had ever spent in his life, Steven lay in momentary cessation of his attack upon strange little scorpions that kept running out from a corner into the one shaft of light that came through one window which daylight had discovered. The jailer, who had thrust a plate of beans and a jar of water through the door around noon had vouchsafed no information except that Steven would stay right where he was till the _jefe politico_ returned; maybe one month, maybe two. _Quien sabe?_ May be the _jefe_ might be killed and never return.