started back to the ranch.

"How white your face is!" Farrel murmured, deprecatingly, as he came to
the side of the car. "So sorry our ride has been spoiled." He glanced
at his wrist-watch. "Only ten o'clock," he continued. "I wonder if
you'd be gracious enough to motor me in to El Toro. Your father plans
to use the car after luncheon, but we will be back by twelve-thirty."

"Certainly. Delighted!" the girl replied, in rather a small,
frightened voice.

"Thank you." He considered a moment. "I think it no less than fair to
warn you, Miss Parker, that my trip has to do with a scheme that may
deprive your father of his opportunity to acquire the Rancho Palomar at
one-third of its value. I think the scheme may be at least partially
successful, but if I am to succeed at all, I'll have to act promptly."

She held out her hand to him.

"My father plays fair, Don Mike. I hope you win."

And she unlatched the door of the tonneau and motioned him to enter.

XIII

The return of Pablo Artelan to the hacienda with his employer's
prisoner was a silent and dignified one up to the moment they reached
the entrance to the palm avenue. Here the prisoner, apparently having
gathered together his scattered wits, turned in the saddle and
addressed his guard.

"Artelan," he said, in Spanish, "if you will permit me to go, I will
give you five thousand dollars."

"If you are worth five thousand dollars to me," the imperturbable Pablo
replied, calmly, "how much more are you worth to Don Miguel Farrel?"

"Ten thousand! You will be wealthy."

"What need have I for wealth, Loustalot? Does not Don Miguel provide
all things necessary for a happy existence?"

"I will give you twelve thousand. Do not be a fool, Artelan. Come; be
sensible and listen to reason."

"Silence, animal! Is not the blood of my brother on your head? One
word--"

"Fifteen thousand, Artelan. Quick. There is little time to--"

Pablo rode up beside him and quite deliberately smote the man heavily
across the mouth with the back of his hand.

"There will be no more talk of money," he commanded, tersely.

John Parker had finished writing his letters and was standing, with his
wife and the potato baron, in front of the hacienda when Pablo and his
prisoner rode into the yard. Thin rivulets of blood were trickling
from the Basque's nose and lips; his face was ashen with rage and
apprehension.

"Why, Loustalot, what has happened?" Parker cr