“I don't want to destroy your belief in the connection of your friend with the road agents,” said Demorest grimly, “but if he belongs to their band it is in an inferior capacity. Most of them are known to the authorities, and I have heard it even said that their leader or organizer is a very unromantic speculator in San Francisco.” But this suggestion was received coldly by the ladies, who superciliously turned their backs upon it and the suggester. Joan dropped her voice to a lower tone and turned to Dona Rosita. “And you have never seen him since?” “Never.” “I should--at least, I wouldn't have let it end in THAT way,” said Joan in a positive whisper. “Eh?” said Dona Rosita, laughing. “So eet is YOU, Juanita, that have the romance--eh? Ah, bueno! 'you have the house--so I gif to you the lover also.' I place him at your disposition.” She made a mock gesture of elaborate and complete abnegation. “But,” she added in Joan's ear, with a quick glance at Demorest, “do not let our hoosband eat him. Even now he have the look to strangle ME. Make to him a little lof, quickly, when I shall walk in the garden.” She turned away with a pretty wave of her fan to Demorest, and calling out, “I go to make an assignation with my memory,” laughed again, and lazily passed into the shadow. An ominous silence on the veranda followed, broken finally by Mrs. Demorest. “I don't think it was necessary for you to show your dislike to Dona Rosita quite so plainly,” she said, coldly, slightly accenting the Puritan stiffness, which any conjugal tete-a-tete lately revived in her manner. “I show dislike of Dona Rosita?” stammered Demorest, in surprise. “Come, Joan,” he added, with a forgiving smile, “you don't mean to imply that I dislike her because I couldn't get up a thrilling interest in an old story I've heard from every gossip in the pueblo since I can remember.” “It's not an old story to HER,” said Joan, dryly, “and even if it were, you might reflect that all people are not as anxious to forget the past as you are.” Demorest drew back to let the shaft glance by. “The story is old enough, at least for her to have had a dozen flirtations, as you know, since then,” he returned gently, “and I don't think she herself seriously believes in it. But let that pass. I am sorry I offended her. I had no idea of doing so. As a rule, I think she is not so easily offended. But I shall apologize to her.” He stopped and approached nearer his wife in a half-timid, half-tentative affection. “As to my forgetfulness of the past, Joan, even if it were true, I have had little cause to forget it lately. Your friend, Corwin--” “I must insist upon your not calling him MY friend, Richard,” interrupted Joan, sharply, “considering that it was through YOUR indiscretion in coming to us for the buggy that night, that he suspected--”