t was a little faded bunch of field flowers.

"My share, senorita?" He laughed softly. "I am not come here for
gol'. Me, I have this." He lifted the flowers, his eyes tender upon
them. "With this I am more rich than the King of Spain!"

Drennen's dry laugh, the old, bitter snarl, cut through the room like a
curse. They had not seen him; they had been too busy with their own
thoughts. Now, as they whirled toward the door which framed him,
Garcia's hand went swiftly to his pocket, Ygerne's face grew as white
as death.

"So," said the Mexican softly. "You are come, senor!"

The muzzle of Drennen's rifle moved in a quick arc. It came to rest
bearing upon Garcia's breast.

"Turn your back!" commanded Drennen sharply. He came well into the
room, setting his own back to the wall so that, should Sefton and
Lemarc come, he should be ready for them. "Do you hear me?" for Garcia
had not stirred. "By God, I'll kill you . . ."

Garcia shrugged, and shrugging obeyed the command which he was in no
position to disobey. And, as again Drennen's curt words came crisply
to him, he obeyed, tossing his revolver aside so that it fell close to
the wall. Then, with Ygerne's wide eyes upon them both, Garcia backed
up to Drennen and Drennen searched him swiftly, removing a cruel-bladed
knife.

"Your little flowers," sneered Drennen, "you can keep."

He caught a murderous gleam from Garcia's eyes.

"The man who would touch them, senor," the Mexican said softly, "would
die if I have but my hands to kill!"

"And now, my fine Countess Ygerne," mocked Drennen, coming a step
toward her. "Have you still your nice little habit . . ."

As though in answer her hand had sped toward her bosom. But Drennen
was too close to her, too quick and too strong. His grip set heavy,
like steel, upon her wrist, he whipped out her weapon and tossed it to
lie beside Garcia's.

"You brute," she said coolly.

He regarded her in silence, insolently. His eyes were bright and
inexorable with their cold triumph.

"So," he said in a little, having passed over her remark just as he had
ignored Garcia's, "in all of your lying to me there was some grain of
truth! There was a Bellaire treasure and you have found it."

"Yes," she cried passionately, her hands clenched and grown bloodlessly
white. "And I'll spend every cent of it to make you suffer for the
things . . ."

"Not so fast," he taunted her. "Do you guess what I am going to do?
Do yo