“Hello—hello—Miss Majesty!” came the hurried reply. “This is Link talkin’. Messages for you. Favorable, the operator said. I’m to ride out with them. I’ll come a-hummin’.” That was all. Madeline heard the bang of the receiver as Stevens threw it down. She passionately wanted to know more, but was immeasurably grateful for so much! Favorable! Then Stillwell had been successful. Her heart leaped. Suddenly she became weak and her hands failed of their accustomed morning deftness. It took her what seemed a thousand years to dress. Breakfast meant nothing to her except that it helped her to pass dragging minutes. Finally a low hum, mounting swiftly to a roar and ending with a sharp report, announced the arrival of the car. If her feet had kept pace with her heart she would have raced out to meet Link. She saw him, helmet thrown back, watch in hand, and he looked up at her with his cool, bright smile, with his familiar apologetic manner. “Fifty-three minutes, Miss Majesty,” he said, “but I hed to ride round a herd of steers an’ bump a couple off the trail.” He gave her a packet of telegrams. Madeline tore them open with shaking fingers, began to read with swift, dim eyes. Some were from Washington, assuring her of every possible service; some were from New York; others written in Spanish were from El Paso, and these she could not wholly translate in a brief glance. Would she never find Stillwell’s message? It was the last. It was lengthy. It read: Bought Stewart’s release. Also arranged for his transfer as prisoner of war. Both matters official. He’s safe if we can get notice to his captors. Not sure I’ve reached them by wire. Afraid to trust it. You go with Link to Agua Prieta. Take the messages sent you in Spanish. They will protect you and secure Stewart’s freedom. Take Nels with you. Stop for nothing. Tell Link all—trust him—let him drive that car. STILLWELL. ***** The first few lines of Stillwell’s message lifted Madeline to the heights of thanksgiving and happiness. Then, reading on, she experienced a check, a numb, icy, sickening pang. At the last line she flung off doubt and dread, and in white, cold passion faced the issue. “Read,” she said, briefly, handing the telegram to Link. He scanned it and then looked blankly up at her. “Link, do you know the roads, the trails—the desert between here and Agua Prieta?” she asked. “Thet’s sure my old stampin’-ground. An’ I know Sonora, too.” “We must reach Agua Prieta before sunset—long before, so if Stewart is in some near-by camp we can get to it in—in time.” “Miss Majesty, it ain’t possible!” he exclaimed. “Stillwell’s crazy to say thet.” “Link, can an automobile be driven from here into northern Mexico?” “Sure. But it ’d take time.” “We must do it in little time,” she went on, in swift eagerness. “Otherwise Stewart may be—probably will be—be shot.” Link Stevens appeared suddenly to grow lax, shriveled, to lose all his peculiar pert brightness, to weaken and age.