The Storm Centre chafed under a mad desire to verify his name, which was not unusual. But it was the first time he had ever craved active danger as an antidote for his thoughts. The sound of bars lifting came as a relief, and he shook off the dark mood and was himself. Before the door opened, he thrust her letter into the candle flame. He had kept it till the last minute, but now he burned it, as she knew he would. Instead of executioners, he beheld a tray, gripped by chocolate hands. Involuntarily he looked up to the face above the tray. "Johnny the Baptist!" he exclaimed. "Well, well, how goes it itself to Your Mercy this evening?" "Pues bien, senor," returned the Baptist, grinning sheepishly. "Would, would Y'r Mercy like another bath?" The grimace was not unamiable. It betokened that this time he, and not the prisoner, might have a game to play. "A thousand thanks," replied Driscoll, "but I'll try to make that other bath answer." "But senor, you wasted it." "Well, perhaps so. You see, Johnny, it was this way. I had only one bath coming, and on the other hand there were two things to save. Do you know, Johnny, I've been mortified ever since, to think how I squandered my one bath in saving just my life, and how I left my soul to bustle along for itself." The Baptist drew nearer. "But suppose, senor," he whispered, "suppose the need of absolution was again postponed, even now?" Driscoll's fork stopped half way to his mouth. There was no superstition in the affair this time. The once gullible Dragoon, moreover, was playing all the leads. "Of course," Driscoll agreed heartily, "I'd certainly like it right well," and he went on eating. But his wits were in a receptive state, alert for the meaning when it should come. The opening innuendoes exasperated him, for the guard was a clumsy agent. The man must needs feign a great dread of discovery, and tremble lest his colonel, Don Miguel Lopez, should find him out. As though supper, instead of a shooting squad, did not belie it all? "Still your move, Johnny," Driscoll had to remind him. In the end it was to be gathered that Don Benito Juarez, the fugitive Senor Presidente of the fugitive Republic, might welcome an offer of Confederate aid, and 'twas a pity that the condemned senor should have no chance to escape. But if he did escape, he might find his way to the Senor Presidente far off in the state of Chihuahua. So, the cards were dealt at last. Driscoll looked over his hand. He recognized a crooked game, a game of treachery and dark dealing; but even so he perceived that a trump or two had fallen to him, perhaps unwittingly, and he decided to "sit in for a spell."