“The air is bone-dry,” he reminded her.  “What little rain there is never gets in here.  Nothing decays; look yonder.”

He showed her a basket made of withes, a graceful thing skilfully made, small, frail-looking, and as perfect as the day it had come from a pair of quick brown hands under a pair of quick black eyes.  She took it almost with a sense of awe upon her.

“Keep it, will you?” he asked lightly.  “As a memento.  Presented by a caveman through your friend the sheriff.  Now let’s get back before they miss us.  I may have need of this place some time and I’d rather no one else knew of it.”

They made their way back as they had come and in silence, Virginia treasuring the token and with it the sense that her friend the sheriff had cared to share his secret with her.

They made of the day an occasion to be remembered, to be considered wistfully in retrospect during the troubled hours so soon to come to each one of the four of them.  While Elmer and Florrie gathered fire-wood, Norton showed Virginia how simple a matter it was here in this seldom-visited mountain-stream to take a trout.  Cool, shaded pools under overhanging, gouged-out banks, tiny falls, and shimmering riffles all housed the quick speckled beauties.  Then, as Norton had predicted, the fish were fried, crisp and brown, in sizzling bacon-grease, while the thin wafers of bacon garnished the tin plate bedded in hot ashes.  They nooned in the shady grove, sipping their coffee that had the taste of some rare, black nectar.  And throughout the long lazy afternoon they loitered as it pleased them, picked flowers, wandered anew through the ruins of the King’s Palace, lay by the singing water, and were quietly content.  It was only when the shadows had thickened over the world and the promise of the primroses was fulfilled that they made ready for the return ride.  Before they had gone down to their horses the moths were coming to the yellow flowers, tumbling about them, filling the air with the frail beating of their wings.

At Struve’s hotel . . .  Elmer and Virginia had ridden on to Engle’s home . . .  Virginia told Norton good night, thanking him for a perfect day.  As their hands met for a little she saw a new, deeply probing look in his eyes, a look to be understood.  He towered over her, physically superb.  As she had felt it before, so now did she experience that odd little thrill born from nearness to him go singing through her.  She withdrew her hand hastily and went in.  In her own room she stood a long time before her glass, seeking to read what lay in her own eyes.

Tom Cutter was waiting for Norton—­merely to tell him that a stranger had come to San Juan, a Mexican with all the earmarks of a gentleman and a man of means.  The Mexican’s name was Enrique del Rio.  He evidently came from below the border.  He had lost no time in finding Jim Galloway, with whom he had been all afternoon.