“Anyway, it’s better. You’re easier to say things to. Are you really the man who ran away from the street car?” she asked doubtfully. “I really am.” “Then I’m most surely sure that you had good reason.” She began to laugh softly. “As for the stories about you, I’d believe them less than ever, now.” “Are there stories about me?” “Gossip of the club. They call you ‘The Unspeakable Perk’!” “Not a bad nickname,” he admitted. “I expect I have been rather unspeakable, from their point of view.” A desire to have the faith that was in her supported by this man’s own word overrode her shyness. “Mr. Beetle Man,” she said, “have you got a sister?” “I? No. Why?” “If you had a sister, is there anything—Oh, _darn_ your sister!” broke forth the irrepressible Polly. “I’ll be your sister for this. Is there anything about you and your life here that you’d be afraid to tell me?” “No.” “I knew there wasn’t,” she said contentedly. She hesitated a moment, then put a hand on his arm. “Does this _have_ to be good-bye, Mr. Beetle Man?” she said wistfully. “I’m afraid so.” “No!” She stamped imperiously. “I want to see you again, and I’m going to see you again. Won’t you come down to the port and bring me another bunch of your mountain orchids when we sail—just for good-bye?” Through the dull medium of the glasses she could feel his eyes questioning hers. And she knew that once more before she sailed away, she must look into those eyes, in all their clarity and all their strength—and then try to forget them. The swift color ran up into her cheeks. “I—I suppose so,” he said. “Yes.” “Au revoir, then!” she cried, with a thrill of gladness, and fled up the rock. The Unspeakable Perk strode down his path, broke into a trot, and held to it until he reached his house. But Miss Polly, departing in her own direction, stopped dead after ten minutes’ going. It had struck her forcefully that she had forgotten the matter of the expense of the message. How could she reach him? She remembered the cliff above the rock, and the signal. If a signal was valid in one direction, it ought to work equally well in the other. She had her automatic with her. Retracing her steps, she ascended the cliff, a rugged climb. Across the deep-fringed chasm she could plainly see the porch of the _quinta_ with the little clearing at the side, dim in the clouded light. Drawing the revolver, she fired three shots. “He’ll come,” she thought contentedly. The sun broke from behind the obscuring cloud and sent a shaft of light straight down upon the clearing. It illumined with pitiless distinctness the shimmering silk of a woman’s dress, hanging on a line and waving in the first draft of the evening breeze. For a moment Polly stood transfixed. What did it mean? Was it perhaps a servant’s dress. No; he had told her that there was no woman servant.