“A _bola_ is information that somebody who is totally ignorant of the facts whispers confidentially in your ear with the assurance that he knows it to be authentic—in other words, a lie.” “Then there isn’t any plague down under those quaint, old, red-tiled roofs?” “Who ever knows what’s going on under those quaint, old, red-tiled roofs? No foreigner, certainly.” “Even I can feel the mystery, little as I’ve seen of the place,” said the girl. “Oh, that’s the Indian of it. The tiled roofs are Spanish; the speech is Spanish; but just beneath roof and speech, the life and thought are profoundly and unfathomably Indian.” “Not with all the Caracuñans, surely. Take Mr. Raimonda, for instance.” “Ah, that’s different. Twenty families of the city, perhaps, are pure-bloods. There are no finer, cleaner fellows anywhere than the well-bred Caracuñans. They are men of the world, European educated, good sportsmen, straight, honorable gentlemen. Unfortunately not they, but a gang of mongrel grafters control the politics of the country.” “For a hermit of science, you seem to know a good deal of what goes on. By the way, Mr. Raimonda called on me—on us last evening.” “So he mentioned. Rather serious, that, you know.” “Far from it. He was very amusing.” “Doubtless,” commented the other dryly. “But it isn’t fair to play the game with one who doesn’t know the rules. Besides, what will Mr. Preston Fairfax—” “For a professedly shy person, you certainly take a rather intimate tone.” “Oh, I’m shy only under the baleful influence of the feminine eye. Besides, you set the note of intimacy when you analyzed my personal appearance. And finally, I have a warm regard for young Raimonda.” “So have I,” she returned maliciously. “Aren’t you jealous?” He laughed. “Please be a little bit jealous. It would be so flattering.” “Jealousy is another tradition in which I don’t believe.” “Then I can’t flirt with you at all?” she sighed. “After taking all this long hot walk to see you!” _Plop!_ The sound punctured the silence sharply, though not loudly. Some large fruit pod bursting on a distant tree might have made such a report. “What was that?” asked the girl curiously. “That? Oh, that was a revolver shot,” he remarked. “Aren’t you casual! Do revolver shots mean nothing to you?” “That one shakes my soul’s foundations.” His tone by no means indicated an inner cataclysm. “It may mean that I must excuse myself and leave. Just a moment, please.” Passing across the line of her vision, he disappeared to the left. When she next heard his voice, it was almost directly above her. “No,” it said. “There’s no hurry. The flag’s not up.” “What flag?” “The flag in my compound.” “Can you see your home from here?” “Yes; there’s a ledge on the cliff that gives a direct view.” “I want to come up and see it.” “You can’t. It’s much too hard a climb. Besides, there are rock devilkins on the way.” “And when you hear a shot, you go up there for messages?”