“We shall have the rare pleasure of knowing we are better than people believe us.  And now put those boots away somewhere where we can produce them if necessary, as evidence of Manuel’s evening call.  At present we’ll keep the thing quiet, and in the early morning you can find out where they got in and remove any traces they have left.  It is no use to frighten the women.  There’s no fear of their returning.”

“And if they get away?”

“We can follow in their tracks.”

“If Manuel gives the alarm?”

“With his burglarious boots left behind in the house?  Not much!  Good-night, Ned.  Go to bed.”

With these words Lee turned on his side and quietly resumed his interrupted slumber.  Falkner did not, however, follow this sensible advice.  When he was satisfied that his friend was sleeping he opened the door softly and looked out.  He did not appear to be listening, for his eyes were fixed upon a small pencil of light that stole across the passage from the foot of Kate’s door.  He watched it until it suddenly disappeared, when, leaving the door partly open, he threw himself on his couch without removing his clothes.  The slight movement awakened the sleeper, who was beginning to feel the accession of fever.  He moved restlessly.

“George,” said Falkner, softly.

“Yes.”

“Where was it we passed that old Mission Church on the road one dark night, and saw the light burning before the figure of the Virgin through the window?”

There was a moment of crushing silence.  “Does that mean you’re wanting to light the candle again?”

“No.”

“Then don’t lie there inventing sacrilegious conundrums, but go to sleep.”

Nevertheless, in the morning his fever was slightly worse.  Mrs. Hale, offering her condolence, said, “I know that you have not been resting well, for even after your friend met with that mishap in the hall, I heard your voices, and Kate says your door was open all night.  You have a little fever too, Mr. Falkner.”

George looked curiously at Falkner’s pale face—­it was burning.

CHAPTER V

The speed and fury with which Clinch’s cavalcade swept on in the direction of the mysterious shot left Hale no chance for reflection.  He was conscious of shouting incoherently with the others, of urging his horse irresistibly forward, of momentarily expecting to meet or overtake something, but without any further thought.  The figures of Clinch and Rawlins immediately before him shut out the prospect of the narrowing trail.  Once only, taking advantage of a sudden halt that threw them confusedly together, he managed to ask a question.