This time she complied, while he gazed with all his eyes upon the golden pallor of the sun on her tropic-touched blonde face which colored the blood beneath, or which was touched by the blood beneath, to the amazingly beautiful golden pallor. Almost in a dream he discovered himself looking into her startled, questioning eyes of velvet brown. “And who should have signed this?” she repeated. He came to himself and bowed. “But the name?—your name?” “Morgan, Francis Morgan. As I explained there, Henry and I are some sort of distant relatives—forty-fifth cousins, or something like that.” To his bewilderment, a great doubt suddenly dawned in her eyes, and the old familiar anger flashed. “Henry,” she accused him. “This is a ruse, a devil’s trick you’re trying to play on me. Of course you are Henry.” Francis pointed to his mustache. “You’ve grown that since,” she challenged. He pulled up his sleeve and showed her his left arm from wrist to elbow. But she only looked her incomprehension of the meaning of his action. “Do you remember the scar?” he asked. She nodded. “Then find it.” She bent her head in swift vain search, then shook it slowly as she faltered: “I ... I ask your forgiveness. I was terribly mistaken, and when I think of the way I ... I’ve treated you ...” “That kiss was delightful,” he naughtily disclaimed. She recollected more immediate passages, glanced down at her knee and stifled what he adjudged was a most adorable giggle. “You say you have a message from Henry,” she changed the subject abruptly. “And that he is innocent...? This is true? Oh, I do want to believe you!” “I am morally certain that Henry no more killed your uncle than did I——” “Then say no more, at least not now,” she interrupted joyfully. “First of all I must make amends to you, though you must confess that some of the things you have done and said were abominable. You had no right to kiss me.” “If you will remember,” he contended, “I did it at the pistol point. How was I to know but what I would get shot if I didn’t.” “Oh, hush, hush,” she begged. “You must go with me now to the house. And you can tell me about Henry on the way.” Her eyes chanced upon the handkerchief she had flung so contemptuously aside. She ran to it and picked it up. “Poor, ill-treated kerchief,” she crooned to it. “To you also must I make amends. I shall myself launder you, and....” Her eyes lifted to Francis as she addressed him. “And return it to you, sir, fresh and sweet and all wrapped around my heart of gratitude....” “And the mark of the beast?” he queried. “I am so sorry,” she confessed penitently. “And may I be permitted to rest my shadow upon you?” “Do! Do!” she cried gaily. “There! I am in your shadow now. And we must start.” Francis tossed a peso to the grinning Indian boy, and, in high elation, turned and followed her into the tropic growth on the path that led up to the white hacienda. * * * * *