Conway proceeded boldly to the barn.  Just inside the main building which, in more prosperous times on El Palomar, had been used for storing hay, the touring car stood.  Conway fumbled along the instrument board and discovered the switch key still in the lock, so he turned on the headlights and discovered the limousine thirty feet away in the rear of the barn.  Ten minutes later, with the spark plugs from both cars carefully secreted under a pile of split stove wood in the yard, he departed as silently as he had come.

About nine o’clock Don Mike left the Mission and walked home.  On the hills to the north he caught the glare of a camp-fire against the silvery sky; wherefore he knew that Don Nicolas Sandoval and his deputies were guarding the Loustalot sheep.

At ten o’clock he entered the patio.  In a wicker chaise-longue John Parker lounged on the porch outside his room; Farrel caught the scent of his cigar on the warm, semi-tropical night, saw the red end of it gleaming like a demon’s eye.

“Hello, Mr. Farrel,” Parker greeted him.  “Won’t you sit down and smoke a cigar with me before turning in?”

“Thank you.  I shall be happy to.”  He crossed the garden to his guest, sat down beside him and gratefully accepted the fragrant cigar Parker handed him.  A moment later Kay joined them.

“Wonderful night,” Parker remarked.  “Mrs. P. retired early, but Kay and I sat up chatting and enjoying the peaceful loveliness of this old garden.  A sleepless mocking bird and a sleepy little thrush gave a concert in the sweet-lime tree; a couple of green frogs in the fountain rendered a bass duet; Kay thought that if we remained very quiet the spirits of some lovers of the ‘splendid idle forties’ might appear in your garden.”

The mood of the night was still upon the girl.  In the momentary silence that followed she commenced singing softly: 

  I saw an old-fashioned missus,
  Taking old-fashioned kisses,
  In an old-fashioned garden,
  From an old-fashioned beau.

Don Mike slid off the porch and went to his own room, returning presently with a guitar.  “I’ve been wanting to play a little,” he confessed as he tuned the neglected instrument, “but it seemed sort of sacrilegious—­after coming home and finding my father gone and the ranch about to go.  However—­why sip sorrow with a long spoon?  What’s that ballad about the old-fashioned garden, Miss Kay?  I like it.  If you’ll hum it a few times—­”

Ten minutes later he knew the simple little song and was singing it with her.  Mrs. Parker, in dressing gown, slippers and boudoir cap, despairing of sleep until all of the members of her family had first preceded her to bed, came out and joined them; presently they were all singing happily together, while Don Mike played or faked an accompaniment.

At eleven o’clock Farrel gave a final vigorous strum to the guitar and stood up to say good-night.