“No.”

“I knew there wasn’t,” she said contentedly.  She hesitated a moment, then put a hand on his arm.  “Does this have to be good-bye, Mr. Beetle Man?” she said wistfully.

“I’m afraid so.”

“No!” She stamped imperiously.  “I want to see you again, and I’m going to see you again.  Won’t you come down to the port and bring me another bunch of your mountain orchids when we sail—­just for good-bye?”

Through the dull medium of the glasses she could feel his eyes questioning hers.  And she knew that once more before she sailed away, she must look into those eyes, in all their clarity and all their strength—­and then try to forget them.  The swift color ran up into her cheeks.

“I—­I suppose so,” he said.  “Yes.”

“Au revoir, then!” she cried, with a thrill of gladness, and fled up the rock.

The Unspeakable Perk strode down his path, broke into a trot, and held to it until he reached his house.  But Miss Polly, departing in her own direction, stopped dead after ten minutes’ going.  It had struck her forcefully that she had forgotten the matter of the expense of the message.  How could she reach him?  She remembered the cliff above the rock, and the signal.  If a signal was valid in one direction, it ought to work equally well in the other.  She had her automatic with her.  Retracing her steps, she ascended the cliff, a rugged climb.  Across the deep-fringed chasm she could plainly see the porch of the quinta with the little clearing at the side, dim in the clouded light.  Drawing the revolver, she fired three shots.

“He’ll come,” she thought contentedly.

The sun broke from behind the obscuring cloud and sent a shaft of light straight down upon the clearing.  It illumined with pitiless distinctness the shimmering silk of a woman’s dress, hanging on a line and waving in the first draft of the evening breeze.  For a moment Polly stood transfixed.  What did it mean?  Was it perhaps a servant’s dress.  No; he had told her that there was no woman servant.

As she sought the solution, a woman’s figure emerged from the porch of the quinta, crossed the compound, and dropped upon a bench.  Even at that distance, the watcher could tell from the woman’s bearing and apparel that she was not of the servant class.  She seemed to be gazing out over the mountains; there was something dreary and forlorn in her attitude.  What, then, did she do in the beetle man’s house?

Below the rock the shrubbery weaved and thrashed, and the person who could best answer that question burst into view at a full lope.

“What is it?” he panted.  “Was it you who fired?”

She stared at him mutely.  The revolver hung in her hand.  In a moment he was beside her.

“Has anything happened?” he began again, then turned his head to follow the direction of her regard.  He saw the figure in the compound.

“Good God in heaven!” he groaned.