With unaffected womanliness she rearranged her slightly disordered hair as he drew up beside her.  “I thought you were in yonder boat,” she said.

“Not I,” he laughed; “I distanced you by the highroad two hours, and have been reconnoitering, until I saw you hesitate at the cross-roads.”

“But who is in the boat?” asked Mrs. Tucker, partly to hide her embarrassment.

“Only some early Chinese market gardener, I dare say.  But you are safe now.  You are on your own land.  You passed the boundary monument of the rancho five minutes ago.  Look!  All you see before you is yours from the embarcadero to yonder Coast Range.”

The tone of half raillery did not, however, cheer Mrs. Tucker.  She shuddered slightly and cast her eyes over the monotonous sea of tule and meadow.

“It doesn’t look pretty, perhaps,” continued Poindexter, “but it’s the richest land in the State, and the embarcadero will some day be a town.  I suppose you’ll call it Blue Grassville.  But you seem tired!” he said, suddenly dropping his voice to a tone of half humorous sympathy.

Mrs. Tucker managed to get rid of an impending tear under the pretense of clearing her eyes.  “Are we nearly there?” she asked.

“Nearly.  You know,” he added, with the same half mischievous, half sympathizing gayety, “it’s not exactly a palace you’re coming to,—­hardly.  It’s the old casa that has been deserted for years, but I thought it better you should go into possession there than take up your abode at the shanty where your husband’s farm-hands are.  No one will know when you take possession of the casa, while the very hour of your arrival at the shanty would be known; and if they should make any trouble”—­

“If they should make any trouble?” repeated Mrs. Tucker, lifting her frank, inquiring eyes to Poindexter.

His horse suddenly rearing from an apparently accidental prick of the spur, it was a minute or two before he was able to explain.  “I mean if this ever comes up as a matter of evidence, you know.  But here we are!”

What had seemed to be an overgrown mound rising like an island out of the dead level of the grassy sea now resolved itself into a collection of adobe walls, eaten and incrusted with shrubs and vines, that bore some resemblance to the usual uninhabited-looking exterior of a Spanish-American dwelling.  Apertures that might have been lance-shaped windows or only cracks and fissures in the walls were choked up with weeds and grass, and gave no passing glimpse of the interior.  Entering a ruinous corral they came to a second entrance, which proved to be the patio or courtyard.  The deserted wooden corridor, with beams, rafters, and floors whitened by the sun and wind, contained a few withered leaves, dryly rotting skins, and thongs of leather, as if undisturbed by human care.  But among these scattered debris of former life and habitation there was no noisome or unclean suggestion of decay.  A faint spiced odor of desiccation filled the bare walls.  There was no slime on stone or sun-dried brick.  In place of fungus or discolored moisture the dust of efflorescence whitened in the obscured corners.  The elements had picked clean the bones of the old and crumbling tenement ere they should finally absorb it.