Then suddenly a tongue of red flame darted at him across the street, where lay a space of unlighted gloom. His hat was whipped off his head. The sharp report of a shot cracked between the adobe walls. With an unbelievably rapid movement Steele Weir drew the revolver in his pocket, and which he had carried ever since his encounter with young Sorenson in the restaurant, fired twice where he had seen the flame and leaped aside into the darkness beside the doorway. There he waited, half crouching, for a further attack. But none came. Men began to run towards the place. Shouts and calls echoed along the street. In two minutes a crowd was surging before Martinez' door wildly asking questions. Weir pocketed his pistol and walked back into the office, where he found his bullet-pierced hat lying on the floor and the attorney standing frozen with astonishment. A stream of people followed at his heels. "Who did this shooting? Do you know, Felipe?" a tall raw-boned white man who led them asked hastily. "This gentleman, Mr. Weir, was fired on, sheriff," Martinez burst out volubly. "And I fired in return," the engineer stated. "The fellow was across the street in the dark. You might look over there." Turning and pushing his way through the packed door, the sheriff disappeared. The crowd melted away again. Presently as Weir glanced about he saw a new figure at the doorway, staring at him. He went towards the girl there outlined in the lamplight. "Was that you I saw moving along just before the exchange of compliments, Miss Hosmer?" he asked. "Yes. I was coming towards you on my way home." "It probably gave you a fright." "It did, indeed. I heard the shot and saw your hat knocked off. I just went cold in my tracks. At first I believed you killed." "I'm very much alive, as you see." "But it was dreadful! Who would fire at you from the dark? Some one tried to murder you!" "It looks like it. Still here I am, ready to move your car out of the water next time it's stalled." She entered the room slowly. "Who in San Mateo would do such a terrible thing, Mr. Martinez?" she addressed the lawyer. The pallor was still on her face and her eyes were large with horror. "Ah, Miss Janet, if we but knew! We'd lay hands on him and send him to the penitentiary." Real emotion struggled in the lawyer's words. With the return of his senses he had just begun to realize by what a narrow margin the assassin's bullet had missed destroying his future client and prospects. A growing murmur across the street attracted their attention. Then as they continued to chat of the event, the sheriff reappeared, directing half a dozen men who laid a burden in the light of Martinez' doorway. "You got him," he said to Weir, with ominous significance. "One bullet through the head, one through his stomach. He's good and dead."