She gave us a look that froze the blood in our veins, despite the scorching wind from the edge of the desert. “Yes, what did become av thim? That’s what many would like to know. _They have not been heard of since!_” “You would advise us to stay here for the night, then?” “Suit yourselves, suit yourselves. I see your rad-aytor’s leakin’. ’Tis a serious thing to get out in that desert, miles fr’m anywhere wid an impty rad-ayator. What could ye do, an’ night comin’ on? Ye’re hilpless! An’ suppose ye get lost? The road’s not marked. ’Tis a mass of criss-cross tracks leadin’ iverywhere. At best, ye’d have to stop where ye are till mornin’, if ye don’t git too far lost ever t’ find y’rselves again.” Here entered a Gentleman from Philadelphia, a traveler for Quaker Oats, who listened to our debate with great interest. He was a brisk and businesslike young man, with a friendly brown eye and a brotherly manner. “If you ask _me_, Mrs. Flanagan,” he began diplomatically, “I’d advise the young ladies to take a chance. I think they can make it.” Something in this advice, slightly stressed, implied a warning. Mrs. Flanagan with her swarthy Mexican features was not the most prepossessing landlady in the world, nor did a lonely roadhouse on the edge of the desert, with no other guests than ourselves, promise complete security. Tales of Swiss inns, and trap-doors yawning at midnight came to me, faintly conveyed by the young man’s tones. She turned on him with ill-concealed anger. “It’s nothin’ to _me_, go or stay. But here’s a good hotel,--with a bath-room, even,--and there’s night, and sandy roads, and a stor’rm comin’. If ye had a man wid ye, I’d say ‘go on,’ though it’s not safe, even f’r a man. But bein’ two ladies, I say stop here.” We wavered, anxious to get on, but not to meet a violent end. On the pretext of filling our water-bag, the Gentleman from Philadelphia took us aside. “Don’t let Mrs. Flanagan fool you,” he advised. “She only wants customers. I stayed here once,” he twitched nervously,--“and I’d rather run the chance of being robbed and murdered. Not that I think that will happen to you.” So we thanked him, nice brisk, friendly young man that he was, taking care not to incriminate him before the watchful Mrs. Flanagan, and bade that lady adieu. She gloomily wished us good luck, but it was apparently more than she dared hope. “Only last week, two men were held up and murdered by the Mexicans,” she called after us. “Watch out for thim Mexicans,--they’re a wicked bad lot.”