take the City of Mexico and
Monterey stage, and reach the City in two days, which was much shorter
than by way of the sea and Vera Cruz. He spoke as dispassionately as a
time table. But he noted that she clothed his skeleton data with a
personal interest. And Ney also, who had caught the drift of things, saw
new mischief brewing in her gray eyes.

"You really are not thinking, mademoiselle----" he interrupted.

"And why not, pray?"

"Why not? Why--uh--the bandits, of course."

Jacqueline turned to the stranger who served as itinerary folder. Would
he dispose of the childish objection? He would. But he wondered why the
senor had not mentioned one who was the most to be feared of all
bandits; in fact, the most implacable of the rebels still battling
against His Truly Mexican Majesty. The stranger paused expectantly, but
as Ney seemed to recognize no particular outlaw from the description, he
went on with a deepening frown, "----and who is none other than the
Capitan Don Rodrigo Galan."

"Who's he?" Ney inquired, willing enough to have any scarecrow whatever
for Jacqueline.

"Is it possible?--Your Mercy does not know?"

Ney pleaded that he had never been in the country before.

"But surely," the Mexican objected, "Don Rodrigo is a household word
throughout Europe?"

"He has certainly been heard of in Mexico," said Jacqueline, whereat Fra
Diavolo turned to her gratefully. "But," she added, "Monsieur Ney will
now find in him another objection to my journeying overland."

The ardor of the bandit's eulogist faltered. "The senor might indeed,"
he confessed, "only," and here he hesitated like a man contemplating
suicide, "only, Don Rodrigo has been--yes, he's been shot, from ambush;
and his band--yes, his band is scattered forever."

Having achieved the painful massacre, Fra Diavolo traveled on more
easily to assure the senorita that since then the country had been
entirely pacified. Ney, however, was not. How did they know the story
was true? And if it was, he was sorry. He would enjoy meeting the
terrible and provokingly deceased Monsieur Rodrigue, if only to teach
him that being terrible is not good manners. But, did they know for
certain that the bandit was dead?

"We do," said the Mexican, again like a reluctant suicide, "because I
killed him myself."

"But how are we to know, sir," Ney persisted, "that you are so terrible
on your own account?"

"My identification, you mean? Bueno, it is only just. Here,