Suddenly she seemed to realise the yearning of her own heart, her utter faith in him.  He would come, he must come; even now he might have discovered her sudden disappearance, and suspected the cause.  He would never believe any lies they might tell—­that she had departed without a word, without a message—­he would find out the truth somehow; he was not the kind to lie down, to avoid danger when it confronted duty—­and, besides, he cared.  She knew this, comprehended without question; there had been no word spoken, yet she knew.

Once she had accepted this knowledge with a smile, but now it thrilled her with hope, and set her heart throbbing strangely.  Not that she dreamed love in return, or permitted it to even enter her mind; yet the very thought that this man would, if necessary, wade into the very waters of death for her sake, was somehow sweet and consoling.  She was no longer alone; no longer hopeless and unnerved—­deep down in her consciousness she trusted him.

“If”—­how often that recurred; how it brought back memory of Lacy, of Enright, of Beaton, of the La Rue woman.  What else could they have remained behind for, except to hide and close the trail?  It was Westcott they would guard against; he was the only one they now had any cause to fear.  They suspected his connection with her, his knowledge of their purpose; they knew of his presence the night before at the shaft-house of Lacy’s mine; they would “get” him, if they could, and by no such simple methods as they got her.  If she could only have warned him; if he was only placed on guard before they were ready to act—­“if”——­

Suddenly the girl’s slender body grew taut, and her thin white, delicate hands clutched the granite wall back of her, and into her grey eyes crept the light of terror, a terror that was new and strange to her, a nameless clutching fear that her varied experiences in the city had never brought her, an insidious, terrible fright for her bodily safety.  Her delicate ears, strained under their spun-brown covering of hair—­there was no doubt of it; she heard footsteps in the passageway.  Juan Cateras with his leering, lustful smile was coming back.

CHAPTER XXV:  IN THE DARK PASSAGE

The uncertainty was of scarcely an instant.  The open slit above the door was a perfect conveyer of sound, and a voice pierced the silence.  It was the voice of Juan Cateras, vibrant with anger.

“You sleepy swine,” he ejaculated fiercely, “and is this the way you keep watch?  Come out of that!” the command punctuated by the scuffling of feet.  “Damn you, Silva, but I will teach you a lesson for this when I return.  Now go to the hut and stay there until I come.  This is a matter where Mendez shall name the penalty.  Get you gone, you sleepy dog.”

He either struck or kicked the man, hurrying the fellow down the passage to the echo of Spanish oaths.  Apparently no resistance was made, for the next instant the key turned in the lock and the door opened.  Cateras, smiling, seemingly unruffled by this encounter, stepped within, calmly closed the door behind him, and then turned to greet the lady.  She met his bow with eyes of firm resolve, though her heart ached.