“But he is waiting to take me back!” she objected, and then added:  “I wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to I’ll go at once.”  And with these words she made a movement towards the door.

Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held on to the Mexican.  Of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake.  He had thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the Sheriff’s face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming from the woman while in her present rebellious mood.

“All right, my lady,” he said, for the time being yielding to her will, “have your way.”  And turning now to the Mexican, he added none too gently: 

“Here you, get out!”

Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room.

“There’s no use of your getting into a rage,” went on Ashby, turning to the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner.  “I calculated that the greaser would be in on the job, too.”

All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the least, for she ignored him completely.

“It was well for you, Senor Ashby, that you let him go.  I tell you frankly that in another moment I should have gone.”  And now throwing back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance’s face, saying:  “It depends on how you treat me—­you, Mr. Jack Rance, as well as Senor Ashby—­whether we come to terms or not.  Perhaps I had better go away anyway,” she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference.

This time Ashby sat perfectly still.  It was not difficult to perceive that her anger was decreasing with every word that she uttered; nor did he fail to note how fluently she spoke English, a slight Spanish accent giving added charm to her wonderfully soft and musical voice.  How gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she looked as she stood there, voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the expression that had been almost diabolical, gradually fading from her face.  Was it possible, he asked himself, that all this loveliness was soiled forever?  He felt that there was something pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him represented negotiable property which could be purchased by any passer-by who had a few more nuggets in his possession than his neighbour; and, perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history of this former belle of Monterey he put a little more consideration into the voice that said: 

“All right, Nina, we’ll get down to business.  What have you to say to us?”