nerring perception of faces recognized at the same moment
that the intruder was none other than the handsome, reckless-looking man
he had seen the other day in conference with Mateo.

But Ezekiel was not the only witness of this strange intrusion. A few
paces from him, Dona Rosita, unconscious of his return, was gazing in
a half-frightened, breathless absorption in the direction of the
stranger's flight.

"Wa'al!" drawled Ezekiel lazily.

She started and turned towards him. Her face was pale and alarmed, and
yet to the critical eye of Ezekiel it seemed to wear an expression of
gratified relief. She laughed faintly.

"Ef that's the kind o' ghost you hev about yer, it's a healthy one,"
drawled Ezekiel. He turned and fixed his keen eyes on Rosita's face. "I
wonder what kind o' fruit grows on the cactus that he's so fond of?"

Either she had not seen the abstraction of the letter, or his acting was
perfect, for she returned his look unwaveringly. "The fruit, eh? I have
not comprehend."

"Wa'al, I reckon I will," said Ezekiel. He walked towards the cactus;
there was nothing to be seen but its thorny spikes. He was confronted,
however, by the sudden apparition of Joan from behind the manzanita at
its side. She looked up and glanced from Ezekiel to Dona Rosita with an
agitated air.

"Oh, you saw him too?" she said eagerly.

"I reckon," answered Ezekiel, with his eyes still on Rosita. "I was
wondering what on airth he was so taken with that air cactus for."

Rosita had become slightly pale again in the presence of her friend.
Joan quietly pushed Ezekiel aside and put her arm around her. "Are you
frightened again?" she asked, in a low whisper.

"Not mooch," returned Rosita, without lifting her eyes.

"It was only some peon, trespassing to pick blossoms for his
sweetheart," she said significantly, with a glance towards Ezekiel. "Let
us go in."

She passed her hand through Rosita's passive arm and led her towards
the house, Ezekiel's penetrating eyes still following Rosita with an
expression of gratified doubt.

For once, however, that astute observer was wrong. When Mrs. Demorest
had reached the house she slipped into her own room, and, bolting the
door, drew from her bosom a letter which SHE had picked from the cactus
thorn, and read it with a flushed face and eager eyes.

It may have been the effect of the phenomenal weather, but the next day
a malign influence seemed to pervade the Demorest household. Dona Ros