Barlow's look shifted for an instant to Zoraida's half smiling face.
But his hesitation was brief.

"No," he said shortly.

An hour later Kendric gave up waiting for Bruce and went off to his
bedroom. On his table were two letters in their envelopes. They were
the letters he and Bruce had written, telling of Betty Gordon's
captivity.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH AN OVERTURE IS MADE, AN ANSWER IS
POSTPONED AND A DOOR IS LOCKED

In his bedroom Jim Kendric sat for a long time pondering that night.
What had appeared to him the simplest, most straight-away errand in the
world had brought him down here, just the time-honored search for
treasure. In all particulars the adventure had seemed the usual one,
two men undertaking to share whatever lay ahead, expense, danger or
loot. And through no fault of his own Kendric saw simplicity altered
into complexity. There were Barlow's changed attitude, the desires and
ambitions of Zoraida, the absurdity of Bruce West's infatuation, the
interference of Ruiz Rios and finally the situation in which Betty
Gordon found herself.

"I came down this way to get my hands on buried treasure, if it
exists," Kendric at last told himself irritably; "not to work out the
salvations of half the souls in Mexico! If the issue becomes complex
it is because I am getting turned away from the main thing. What
Barlow and Bruce do is up to them; Barlow, for one, ought to know
better, and Bruce has got to cut his eye-teeth sooner or later. It's
up to me to be on my way."

Which did not entirely dispose of all matters, since it ignored Zoraida
and made no place for Betty. The latter, however, he did not bar from
his thoughts or even from his plannings: If she said the word and would
take the chance with him, he'd find the way to get her safely out of
this house of intrigue. He was constitutionally optimistic enough to
decide that. Among the bushes out in the garden a rifle was hidden;
slung under his left arm pit was a dependable friend; and in his heart
he was spoiling for a row.

Such was his mood, an hour after he had gone to his room, when a rap
discreetly announced a soft-footed somebody at his door. He rose
eagerly, thinking it would be Bruce or perhaps Barlow. But when he
opened the door it was Ruiz Rios who slipped noiselessly into the room,
swiftly closing and locking the door after him.

"Not in bed yet, my friend?" smiled Rios. "It is well. I have
something to say to you."