It was quite dark when he reached the upper field or first terrace of the Rancho.  He could see the white walls of the casa rising dimly out of the green sea of early wild grasses, like a phantom island.  It was here that the cut-off joined the main road—­now the only one that led to the casa.  He was satisfied that no one could have preceded him from Fair Plains; but it was true that he must take precautions against his own discovery.  Dismounting near a clump of willows, he unsaddled and unbridled his horse, and with a cut of the riata over its haunches sent it flying across the field in the direction of a band of feeding mustangs, which it presently joined.  Then, keeping well in the shadow of a belt of shrub-oaks, he skirted the long lesser terraces of the casa, intending to approach the house by way of the old garden and corral.  A drizzling rain, occasionally driven by the wind into long, misty, curtain-like waves, obscured the prospect and favored his design.  He reached the low adobe wall of the corral in safety; looking over he could detect, in spite of the darkness, that a number of the horses were of alien brands, and even recognized one or two from the Santa Inez district.  The vague outline of buggies and carryalls filled the long shed beside the stables.  There was company at the casa—­so far Susy was right!

Nevertheless, lingering still by the wall of the old garden for the deepening of night, his nervous feverishness was again invaded and benumbed by sullen memories.  There was the opening left by the old grille in the wall, behind which Mrs. Peyton stood on the morning when he thought he was leaving the ranch forever; where he had first clasped her in his arms, and stayed.  A turn of the head, a moment’s indecision, a single glance of a languorous eye, had brought this culmination.  And now he stood again before that ruined grille, his house and lands, even his name, misused by a mad, scheming enthusiast, and himself a creeping spy of his own dishonor!  He turned with a bitter smile again to the garden.  A few dark red Castilian roses still leaned forward and swayed in the wind with dripping leaves.  It was here that the first morning of his arrival he had kissed Susy; the perfume and color of her pink skin came back to him with a sudden shock as he stood there; he caught at a flower, drew it towards him, inhaled its odor in a long breath that left him faint and leaning against the wall.  Then again he smiled, but this time more wickedly—­in what he believed his cynicism had sprung up the first instinct of revenge!

It was now dark enough for him to venture across the carriage road and make his way to the rear of the house.  His first characteristic instinct had been to enter openly at his own front gate, but the terrible temptation to overhear and watch the conspiracy unobserved—­that fascination common to deceived humanity to witness its own shame—­had now grown upon him.  He knew that a word or gesture