to
start a rubber plantation in the East Indies somewhere, on Sumatra, I
think--or was it New Guinea?"

And Saxon, back in her own kitchen and preparing supper for Billy,
wondered what lusts and rapacities had led the old, burnt-faced woman
from the big Peruvian ranch, through all the world, to West Oakland and
Barry Higgins Old Barry was not the sort who would fling away his share
of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, much less ever attain to such
opulence. Besides, she had mentioned the names of other men, but not
his.

Much more Mercedes had talked, in snatches and fragments. There seemed
no great country nor city of the old world or the new in which she
had not been. She had even been in Klondike, ten years before, in a
half-dozen flashing sentences picturing the fur-clad, be-moccasined
miners sowing the barroom floors with thousands of dollars' worth of
gold dust. Always, so it seemed to Saxon, Mrs. Higgins had been with men
to whom money was as water.

CHAPTER III

Saxon, brooding over her problem of retaining Billy's love, of never
staling the freshness of their feeling for each other and of never
descending from the heights which at present they were treading, felt
herself impelled toward Mrs. Higgins. SHE knew; surely she must know.
Had she not hinted knowledge beyond ordinary women's knowledge?

Several weeks went by, during which Saxon was often with her. But Mrs.
Higgins talked of all other matters, taught Saxon the making of
certain simple laces, and instructed her in the arts of washing and
of marketing. And then, one afternoon, Saxon found Mrs. Higgins more
voluble than usual, with words, clean-uttered, that rippled and tripped
in their haste to escape. Her eyes were flaming. So flamed her face. Her
words were flames. There was a smell of liquor in the air and Saxon knew
that the old woman had been drinking. Nervous and frightened, at the
same time fascinated, Saxon hemstitched a linen handkerchief intended
for Billy and listened to Mercedes' wild flow of speech.

"Listen, my dear. I shall tell you about the world of men. Do not be
stupid like all your people, who think me foolish and a witch with the
evil eye. Ha! ha! When I think of silly Maggie Donahue pulling the shawl
across her baby's face when we pass each other on the sidewalk! A witch
I have been, 'tis true, but my witchery was with men. Oh, I am wise,
very wise, my dear. I shall tell you of women's ways with men, and of
men's wa