a showed a face ludicrously terror-stricken. The punishments of
Pasquale were notoriously severe. If it were known he had broken the
command he would at least be beaten with whips.

"I did not know. I did not know," he explained humbly, thrusting the
liquor bottle at one of them. "Here, companero, drink and forget that I
have spoken."

He turned and scurried away into the darkness.

CHAPTER XVIII

HARRISON OVERPLAYS HIS HAND

Through the barred window Farrar watched the guard drag Cabenza back. He
was very despondent. They had been prisoners now nearly a week and could
see no termination of their jail sentence in sight. The food given them
was wretched. They were anxious, dirty, and unkempt. Though he would not
admit it even to himself, the camera man was oppressed by the shadow of
a possible impending fate. The whim of a tyrant regardless of human life
might at any hour send them to a firing squad.

Threewit sat gloomily on the stool, elbows on knees and chin resting on
his fists. He could have wept for himself almost without shame. For
forty-five years he had gone his safe way, a policeman always within
call. Not once had life in the raw reached out and gripped him. Not once
had he faced the stark probability of sudden, violent death. Clubs and
after-theater suppers and poker and golf had offered him pleasant
diversion. And now--a cruel fate had thrown him in the way of a
barbarian with no sense of either justice or kindness. He felt himself
too soft of fiber to cope with such elemental forces.

"Look! What is that, Threewit?"

Farrar was pointing to something on the table that gleamed white in the
moonlight. He stepped forward and picked it up. The article was a stone
around which was wrapped a paper tied by a string.

"The Mexican must have thrown it in with the dirt. It wasn't there
before," replied the director quickly.

Farrar untied the string and smoothed out the paper, holding it toward
the moonlight. "There's writing on it, but I can't make it out. Strike a
match for me."

His companion struck on his trousers a match and the camera man read by
its glowing flame.

Keep a stiff upper lip. Cactus Center is on the job. Don't know
when my chance will come, but I'm looking for it. _Chew this up._

S. Y.

Farrar gave a subdued whoop of joy. "It's old Steve. He hasn't forgotten
us, good old boy. I'll bet he has got so