“You are very kind and considerate, Mister Santierra, and I thank you.  I know that my husband”—­she let the clear beauty of her translucent eyes rest full on both men—­“would thank you too.  But I shall not be here long enough to accept your kindness in this house nor in your own.  I have but one desire and object now.  It is to dispose of this property, and indeed all I possess, to pay the debt of my husband.  It is in your power, perhaps, to help me.  I am told that you wish to possess Los Cuervos,” she went on, equally oblivious of the consciousness that appeared in Don Jose’s face, and a humorous perplexity on the brow of Poindexter.  “If you can arrange it with Mr. Poindexter, you will find me a liberal vendor.  That much you can do, and I know you will believe I shall be grateful.  You can do no more, unless it be to say to your friends that Mrs. Belle Tucker remains here only for that purpose, and to carry out what she knows to be the wishes of her husband.”  She paused, bent her pretty crest, dropped a quaint curtsey to the superior age, the silver braid, and the gentlemanly bearing of Don Jose, and with the passing sunshine of a smile disappeared from the corridor.

The two men remained silent for a moment, Don Jose gazing abstractedly on the door through which she had vanished, until Poindexter, with a return of his tolerant smile, said, “You have heard the views of Mrs. Tucker.  You know the situation as well as she does.”

“Ah, yes; possibly better.”

Poindexter darted a quick glance at the grave, sallow face of Don Jose, but detecting no unusual significance in his manner, continued, “As you see, she leaves this matter in my hands.  Let us talk like business men.  Have you any idea of purchasing this property?”

“Of purchasing? ah, no.”

Poindexter bent his brows, but quickly relaxed them with a smile of humorous forgiveness.  “If you have any other idea, Don Jose, I ought to warn you, as Mrs. Tucker’s lawyer, that she is in legal possession here, and that nothing but her own act can change that position.”

“Ah, so.”

Irritated at the shrug which accompanied this, Poindexter continued haughtily, “If I am to understand, you have nothing to say”—­

“To say, ah, yes, possibly.  But”—­he glanced toward the door of Mrs. Tucker’s room—­“not here.”  He stopped, appeared to recall himself, and with an apologetic smile and a studied but graceful gesture of invitation, he motioned to the gateway, and said, “Will you ride?”

“What can the fellow be up to?” muttered Poindexter, as with an assenting nod he proceeded to remount his horse.  “If he wasn’t an old hidalgo, I’d mistrust him.  No matter! here goes!”

The Don also remounted his half-broken mustang; they proceeded in solemn silence through the corral, and side by side emerged on the open plain.  Poindexter glanced round; no other being was in sight.  It was not until the lonely hacienda had also sunk behind them that Don Jose broke the silence.