As she sought the solution, a woman’s figure emerged from the porch of the _quinta_, crossed the compound, and dropped upon a bench. Even at that distance, the watcher could tell from the woman’s bearing and apparel that she was not of the servant class. She seemed to be gazing out over the mountains; there was something dreary and forlorn in her attitude. What, then, did she do in the beetle man’s house? Below the rock the shrubbery weaved and thrashed, and the person who could best answer that question burst into view at a full lope. “What is it?” he panted. “Was it you who fired?” She stared at him mutely. The revolver hung in her hand. In a moment he was beside her. “Has anything happened?” he began again, then turned his head to follow the direction of her regard. He saw the figure in the compound. “Good God in heaven!” he groaned. He caught the revolver from her hand and fired three slow shots. The woman turned. Snatching off his hat, he signalled violently with it. The woman rose and, as it seemed to Polly Brewster, moved in humble submissiveness back to the shelter. White consternation was stamped on the Unspeakable Perk’s face as he handed the revolver to its owner. “Do you need me?” he asked quickly. “If not, I must go back at once.” “I do not need you,” said the girl, in level tones. “You lied to me.” His expression changed. She read in it the desperation of guilt. “I can explain,” he said hurriedly, “but not now. There isn’t time. Wait here. I’ll be back. I’ll be back the instant I can get away.” As he spoke, he was halfway down the rock, headed for the lower trail. The bushes closed behind him. Painfully Polly Brewster made her way down the treacherous footing of the cliff path to her place on the rock. From her bag she drew one of her cards, wrote slowly and carefully a few words, found a dry stick, set it between two rocks, and pinned her message to it. Then she ran, as helpless humans run from the scourge of their own hearts. Half an hour later the hermit, sweat-covered and breathless, returned to the rock. For a moment he gazed about, bewildered by the silence. The white card caught his eye. He read its angular scrawl. “I wish never to see you again. Never! Never! Never!” A sulphur-yellow inquisitor, of a more insinuating manner than the former participant in their conversation, who had been examining the message on his own account, flew to the top of the cliff. “Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit? Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit?” he demanded. For the first time in his adult life the beetle man threw a stone at a bird. VIII. LOS YANKIS