“Ahem!” he began nervously.

“Ahem!” she retorted so promptly that he almost fell off his precarious perch.  “Did you ring?  Number, please.”

“I wish I knew whether you were laughing at me or not,” he said ruefully.

“When?”

“All the time.”

“I am.  Your darkest suspicions are correct.  Did you abolish my devilkin?”

“I drove him back into his trapdoor home and put a rock over it.”

“Why didn’t you destroy him?”

“Because I’ve appointed him guardian of the rock, with strict instructions to bite any one that ever comes there after this except you.”

“Bravo!  You’re progressing.  As soon as you’re free from the blight of my regard, you become quite human.  But I’ll never come again.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said dismally.  “I shan’t hear you again, unless, perhaps, the echoes have kept your voice to play with.”

“Oh, oh!  Is this the language of science?  You know I almost think I should like to come—­if I could.  But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we leave to-morrow.”

“Not across to the southern coast?  It isn’t safe.  Fever—­”

“No; by Puerto del Norte.”

“There’s no boat.”

“Yes, there is.  You can just see her funnel over that white slope. 
It’s our yacht.”

“And you think you are going in her to-morrow?”

“Think?  I know it.”

“No,” he contradicted.

“Yes,” she asserted, quite as concisely.

“No,” he repeated.  “You’re mistaken.”

“Don’t be absurd.  Why?” “Look out there, over that tree to the horizon.”

“I’m looking.”

“Do you see anything?”

“Yes; a sort of little smudge.”

“That’s why.”

“It’s a very shadowy sort of why.”

“There’s substance enough under it.”

“A riddle?  I’ll give it up.”

“No; a bet.  I’ll bet you the treasures of my mountain-side.  Orchids of gold and white and purple and pink, butterflies that dart on wings of fire opal—­”

“Beetles, to know which is to love them, and love but them forever,” she laughed.  “And my side of the wager—­what is that to be?”

“That you will come to the rock day after to-morrow at this hour and stand on the top and be a voice again and talk to me.”

“Done!  Send your treasures to the pier, for you’ll surely lose.  And now take me to the road.”

It was a single-file trail, and he walked in advance, silent as an Indian.  As they emerged from a thicket into the highway, above the red-tiled city in its setting of emerald fields strung on the silver thread of the Santa Clara River, she turned and gave him her hand.

“Be at your rock to-morrow, and when you see the yacht steam out, you’ll know I’ll be saying good-bye, and thank you for your mountain treasures.  Send them to Miss Brewster, care of the yacht Polly.  She’s named after me.  Is there anything the matter with my shoes?” she broke off to inquire solicitously.