He stood amid the colorful blooms of the hotel courtyard and looked up at her window, with its white curtain waving gently in the breeze. He called, softly. And then he saw her face, peering out as some senorita of the old days from her lattice-- "I've news--very important news," he said. "May I see you a moment?" Far better this than the telephone or the bellboy. Far more in keeping with the magic of the night. She came, dressed in the white that set off so well her hair of gleaming copper. Minot met her on the veranda. She smiled into his eyes inquiringly. "Do you mind--a little walk?" he asked. "Where to?" "Say to the fort--the longest way." She glanced back toward the hotel. "I'm not sure that I ought--" "But that will only make it the more exciting. Please. And I've news--real news." She nodded her head, and they crossed the courtyard to the avenue. From this bright thoroughfare they turned in a moment into a dark and unkempt street. "See," said Minot suddenly, "the old Spanish churchyard. They built cities around churches in the old days. The world do move. It's railroad stations now." They stood peering through the gloom at a small chapel dim amid the trees, and aged stones leaning tipsily among the weeds. "At the altar of that chapel," Minot said, "a priest fell--shot in the back by an Indian's arrow. Sounds unreal, doesn't it? And when you think that under these musty stones lies the dust of folks who walked this very ground, and loved, and hated, like you and--" "Yes--but isn't it all rather gloomy?" Cynthia Meyrick shuddered. They went on, to pass shortly through the crumbling remains of the city gates. There at the water's edge the great gray fort loomed in the moonlight like a historical novelist's dream. Its huge iron-bound doors were locked for the night; its custodian home in the bosom of his family. Only its lower ramparts were left for the feet of romantic youth to tread. Along these ramparts, close to the shimmering sea, Miss Meyrick and Minot walked. Truth to tell, it was not so very difficult to keep one's footing--but once the girl was forced to hold out an appealing hand. "French heels are treacherous," she explained. Minot took her hand, and for the first time knew the thrill that, encountered often on the printed page, he had mentally classed as "rubbish!" Wisely she interrupted it: "You said you had news?" He had, but it was not so easy to impart as he had expected. "Tell me," he said, "if it should turn out that what poor old George said this morning was a fact--that Allan Harrowby was an impostor--would you feel so very badly?" She withdrew her hand. "You have no right to ask that," she replied. "Forgive me. Indeed I haven't. But I was moved to ask it for the reason that--what George said was evidently true. Allan Harrowby left suddenly for the north an hour ago." The girl stood still, looking with wide eyes out over the sea.