Lucia didn’t take him seriously.  She hardly remembered that they were so close to the border of Mexico.  “Bandits?” she scoffed.  “Oh, but they just steal cows and things, don’t they?”

“Worse than that.”  Gilbert was serious, and gave her an appraising glance.  “Human life means little in Mexico.  They even kill their prisoners in cold blood.”

But still Lucia was not alarmed.  “If that’s true,” she smiled, “I won’t go without you, if you wish it that way.”  She looked knowingly at him.

“It isn’t what I wish,” Jones answered.  “Nothing is what I wish.”

“Well,” Uncle Henry put in, “you’re going to get your wish all right.”  As he spoke, Morgan Pell came through the alcove from his room, and the old invalid steered his chair so that he faced him.  Pell looked anything but engaging to-day.  There was something about him that repelled—­people could never say what it was; but one sensed a latent cruelty in the man.  His eyes were shifty, and there were little lines about his mouth that spoke of his days of dissipation.  It was hard to associate him with the flower-like Lucia.  Here were a man and woman never meant for each other—­that was evident immediately; yet he had that old power that seemed to hypnotize her.  And she was not the only woman who had fallen beneath his spell.  But now, apparently, he did not see her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pell,” said old Smith to the newcomer.

“How are you?” the latter answered, with no show of interest.

“Have a good nap?” Gilbert inquired; but he really didn’t care at all.  Pell, however, took his question seriously.

“Couldn’t sleep a wink,” he said.  “This cursed heat, you know.  Glad I don’t have to live in this part of the world all the time.”

Uncle Henry leaned forward in his chair, and his eyes followed Pell expectantly as the latter moved across the low room, a small satchel in his hands.  “You ain’t leaving, are you?” he asked.

“No,” was the laconic reply.

“I was afraid you wasn’t,” ventured Uncle Henry; and there was an awkward pause.  Then, “It’s pretty hot,” the invalid remarked, delighted that no one had called him to account for his obvious insult.  He knew he had all the advantage of a weak woman.  His little throne was immune from attack.

“It’s always pretty hot till night—­then it’s pretty cold,” Pell said.

“What’ve you got that bag for?” Uncle Henry pursued.  No one was ever more frankly curious than Uncle Henry.

“Company, my dear sir,” Pell quickly retorted, not a little annoyed at the question; and he glared at the old man.  He had had two days of him, and was getting used to him.  Lucia, who had remained silent by the door, saw the cloud on her husband’s face, and gave a little, startled “Oh!” It was hardly more than a whisper, but Pell was swift to catch it.  He turned on her, and took in her radiant figure.

“So there you are!” he half sneered.  “Been riding?”