“I believe it will,” replied Madeline. She was still doubtful of her plan, but the enthusiasm of the old cattleman was infectious and irresistible. “Very well, we will consider it settled. My guests will arrive on May ninth. Meanwhile let us get Her Majesty’s Rancho in shape for this invasion.” * * * On the afternoon of the ninth of May, perhaps half an hour after Madeline had received a telephone message from Link Stevens announcing the arrival of her guests at El Cajon, Florence called her out upon the porch. Stillwell was there with his face wrinkled by his wonderful smile and his eagle eyes riveted upon the distant valley. Far away, perhaps twenty miles, a thin streak of white dust rose from the valley floor and slanted skyward. “Look!” said Florence, excitedly. “What is that?” asked Madeline. “Link Stevens and the automobile!” “Oh no! Why, it’s only a few minutes since he telephoned saying the party had just arrived.” “Take a look with the glasses,” said Florence. One glance through the powerful binoculars convinced Madeline that Florence was right. And another glance at Stillwell told her that he was speechless with delight. She remembered a little conversation she had had with Link Stevens a short while previous. “Stevens, I hope the car is in good shape,” she had said. “Now, Miss Hammond, she’s as right as the best-trained hoss I ever rode,” he had replied. “The valley road is perfect,” she had gone on, musingly. “I never saw such a beautiful road, even in France. No fences, no ditches, no rocks, no vehicles. Just a lonely road on the desert.” “Shore, it’s lonely,” Stevens had answered, with slowly brightening eyes. “An’ safe, Miss Hammond.” “My sister used to like fast riding. If I remember correctly, all of my guests were a little afflicted with the speed mania. It is a common disease with New-Yorkers. I hope, Stevens, that you will not give them reason to think we are altogether steeped in the slow, dreamy manana languor of the Southwest.” Link doubtfully eyed her, and then his bronze face changed its dark aspect and seemed to shine. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Hammond, thet’s shore tall talk fer Link Stevens to savvy. You mean—as long as I drive careful an’ safe I can run away from my dust, so to say, an’ get here in somethin’ less than the Greaser’s to-morrow?” Madeline had laughed her assent. And now, as she watched the thin streak of dust, at that distance moving with snail pace, she reproached herself. She trusted Stevens; she had never known so skilful, daring, and iron-nerved a driver as he was. If she had been in the car herself she would have had no anxiety. But, imagining what Stevens would do on forty miles and more of that desert road, Madeline suffered a prick of conscience. “Oh, Stillwell!” she exclaimed. “I am afraid I will go back on my wonderful idea. What made me do it?”