her kerchief and put on her hat.

"It's Antonio," she said, in a different tone. "He must have heard the
firing. Don't let him know that you recognized me, will you?"

"Why?" asked Simon, in surprise.

She replied, in some embarrassment:

"It's better. . . . Antonio is very masterful. He forbade me to come.
It was only when he was naming the three Indians of the escort that he
recognized me; I had taken the fourth Indian's horse. . . . So, you
see. . . ."

She did not complete her sentence. A horseman had made his appearance
on the ridge. When he came up to them, Dolores had unfastened her
saddle-bags and was strapping them to the saddle of Simon's horse.
Antonio asked no questions. There was no exchange of explanations.
With a glance he reconstructed the scene, examined the dead animal
and, addressing the young woman by her name, perhaps to show that he
was not taken in, said:

"Have my horse, Dolores."

Was it the mere familiarity of a comrade, or that of a man who wishes,
in the presence of another man, to assert his rights or his
pretentions to a woman? His tone was not imperious, but Simon
surprised the glance that flashed anger on the one side and defiance
on the other. However, he paid little attention, being much less
anxious to discover the private motives which actuated Dolores and
Antonio than to elucidate the problem arising from his meeting with
Lord Bakefield's secretary.

"Did Williams say anything?" he asked Antonio, who was beside him.

"No, he died without speaking."

"Oh! He's dead! . . . And you discovered nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Then what do you think? Were Williams and Charles sent to the _Queen
Mary_ by Lord Bakefield and his daughter and were they to find me and
help me in my search? Or did they go on their own account?"

They soon joined the three pedestrians of the escort, to whom Old
Sandstone, with a cluster of shells in his hand, was giving a
geological lesson. The three pedestrians were asleep.

"I'm going ahead," said Antonio to Simon. "Our horses need a rest. In
an hour's time, set out along the track of the white pebbles which I
shall drop as I go. You can ride at a trot. My three comrades are good
runners."

He had already gone some paces, when he returned and, drawing Simon
aside, looked him straight in the eyes and said:

"Be on your guard with Dolores, M. Dubosc. She is one of these women
of whom it is wise to beware. I have seen many a man lose his head
over he