He turned away, thumbing his moustache, quite pleased with his conceit, but one of the men stopped him with a question.

“We remain here, senor?”

“Yes, you might as well,” his lips smiling, “and if the Senor Cateras passes, you can tell him that I visit the fair American.  It will give him joy.”

The girl drew Cavendish back hurriedly, her mind working in a flash of inspiration.

“Quick,” she breathed in his ear.  “There is a niche where we can hide a few yards back.  If he follows the other wall he might pass, and not notice.”

“But he goes to your cell; ’tis Pasqual Mendez.”

“I know, but come.  He must not go there.  I will tell you my plan.”

They were pressed back within the slight recess before the Mexican turned the corner, and she had hastily breathed her desperate scheme.

“It can be done,” she insisted, “and there is nought else possible.  We dare not let him enter, and find Cateras, and to kill the man will serve no good end.  You will not?  Then give me the revolver.  Good!  Be silent now.”

Mendez came down the black passage evidently in rare good humour, humming a tune, with one hand pressed upon the wall to better guide his movements.  So dark it was, even the outlines of his form were indistinguishable, yet, as he felt no need for caution, it was easy enough to trace his forward progress.  The girl stood erect, the revolver gripped in one hand, the other pressing back her companion into the recess.  She had lost all sense of fear in the determination to act; better risk all than surrender without a struggle.  Mendez fumbled along the wall, stumbled over some slight projection and swore; another step, and his groping hand would touch her.  He never took the step, but was whirled against the side wall, with the cold barrel of a revolver pressed against his cheek.  A stern, sibilant whisper held him motionless.

“If you move I fire, senor; raise your hands—­quick!”

He responded mechanically, too profoundly astounded to dream of resistance.  It was the sound of the voice which impressed him.

“Santa Maria!  A woman?”

“Yes, senor, a woman; the same you sought, but I have found you first.”

He chuckled.

“A good jest surely; how came you here?”

“Not to discuss that, senor,” quietly.  “Nor is this to be laughed over.  If you would live, do as I say.  Mr. Cavendish, see if the man bears weapons.”

“Only a belt with a knife.”

“Keep the knife; it may come handy for some purpose.  Now bind his hands with the belt.  Cross your wrists, senor.”

He had lost his temper, no longer deeming this a joke.

“You damn vixen,” he growled savagely.  “This play will soon be done; do you know who I am?”

“The Senor Pasqual Mendez, but that means nothing,” she answered.  “This revolver will kill you as surely as any one else.  Do what I say then, and talk no more—­cross your wrists behind.”