Greg learned that during his absence Pa Simmons had sent in a message that de Socotra had returned to his apartment about ten in company with a young Spanish-American whose description suggested Henry Saunders. A little before midnight de Socotra had come out again, leaving the young man within, and Pa Simmons had followed him to the house on East Seventeenth Street, where presumably he still was. No word had come from Estuban. De Silva still lay in his deep sleep. As soon as Amy had recovered she asked for Greg. He found her sitting up in bed, pale, great-eyed and smiling. Bessie, it appeared, was not without a secret, feminine fondness for pretty caps and negligees. Producing such articles from a hidden store, she had dressed Amy up like a French doll. After a few moments, the good-hearted Bessie made believe to discover an errand down-stairs, and left them alone. But they had nothing to say to each other that any one might not have heard. There was no constraint; they gave each other their eyes freely, but they instinctively hung back from the deep waters of speech. They had been through too much to-night; Nature demanded a let-down. Their eyes had reached an understanding, their tongues wagged irresponsibly. By and by they heard the disturbance incidental to a new arrival in the kitchen below. Amy, recognizing the timbre of the voice, looked at Greg and said: "Henry." Ginger McAfee came running up-stairs. Though invited to enter, an excessive delicacy constrained him to deliver his message from the other side of the door. "It's the young Spanish gent wants to see Miss. Him that come to the yard yesterday morning. Bull's watching him till she says what to do with him." Amy looked at Greg again. Said he: "Might as well get it over with." She nodded. "Let him come up," she called to Ginger. Señor Henry rushed into the room, and oblivious to the presence of Greg fell on his knees beside Amy's bed and reached for her hand. "Amèlie! Amèlie!" he cried. A flood of Spanish followed. Gone was the high-bred disdain. His yellow face worked with the uncontrollable emotion of a weak nature. For some obscure reason Amy blushed and glanced uneasily at Greg. He, no less uncomfortable, looked away. "Get up," she said curtly to the other. "Speak English." Señor Henry obeyed neither command. "I shall not answer you unless you speak English." He made the attempt, but it was not easy for him to express his overmastering emotion in the unfamiliar tongue. The stammering effect of it all was: "Come away! This is no place for you!" "This is where my friends live," said Amy coldly. It was lost on him. "Come away! I have a cab down-stairs." "Where to?" asked Amy dryly. "Back to Señora de Socotra." "And Señor Francisco? No, thank you." "Let me take you to a hotel, then." "In this? I have no other clothes." Señor Henry's feelings were too much for him. He relapsed into Spanish. Amy clapped her hands over her ears.