With a scrambling and jolting the horses began what appeared an even steeper climb than that of the block before. The beasts seemed to dig their hoofs into the crevices between the cobbles and to clamber perilously up. With an oath Barron kicked open the door and sprang out. “Come on, boy,” he shouted. “I can’t stand this snail of a carriage any longer.” And he set out running up the hill. The boy, who was light of foot and young, kept up with him, but the two heavier men, who had followed, were left behind, puffing and blowing in the darkness. Suddenly the great wall, at the base of which they ran, was crossed by a flight of stairs that made two oblique stripes across its face. “Up the stairs,” said the boy. And Barron, without reply, turned and began the ascent at the same breakneck speed. “You may as well let me go first,” gasped his conductor from behind him. “You don’t know the way, and you might scare the Chinaman. He said he had a gun.” Barron stood aside for him to pass and then followed the nimble figure as it darted up the second flight. The boy was evidently nearing the top, when he sang out: “Ah, there, Lee! It’s me coming back.” There was an unmistakable Chinese guttural from somewhere, and then Barron himself rose above the stair-top. A black mass of garden lay before him, with the bulk of a large house a short distance back. Many windows were lit, and in one he saw a woman standing. Their light fell out over the garden, barring it with long rectangular stripes of brilliance. The wild bark of the dog rose from the house and on the unseen walk the Chinaman’s footsteps could be heard crunching the pebbles. “Is she there yet, Lee?” said the boy in a hissing whisper. The Chinaman’s affirmative grunt rose from the darkness of massed trees, into which his footsteps continued to retreat. “This way,” said his conductor to Barron. “But hang it all, it’s so dark we can’t see.” “Where is she?” said Barron. “Never mind the light. Show me where she is. Mariposa!” he said suddenly, in a voice which, though low, had a quality so thrilling it might have penetrated the ear of death. The garden, rain-swept and rustling, grew quiet. The sound of the Chinaman’s footsteps ceased, even the panting breath of the boy was suddenly suspended. In this moment of pause, when nature seemed to quell her riot to listen, a woman’s voice, sweet and soft, rose out of impenetrable darkness: “Who called me?” The sound broke the agony that had congealed Barron’s heart. With a shout he answered: “It’s I, dearest. Where are you? Come to me.” The voice rose again, faint, but with joy in it. “Oh, have you come--have you come, at last!” He made a rush forward into the blackness before him. At the same moment the two men rose, spent and breathless, from the stairs. The boy was behind Barron, and they behind the boy. “Where are you? Where are you?” they heard him cry, as he crashed forward through shrubs and flower beds.