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.
He caught the revolver from her hand and fired three slow shots.
The woman turned. Snatching off his hat, he signalled violently
with it.
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