“What did he care for, then?”
“Me, I suppose.”
“But this calumny is not like a man who loves you.”
“It is like a JEALOUS one.”
With an effort Harcourt threw off his bewildered incredulity and grasped the situation. He would have to contend with his enemy in the flesh and blood, but that flesh and blood would be very weak in the hands of the impassive girl beside him. His face lightened.
The same idea might have been in Clementina's mind when she spoke again, although her face had remained unchanged. “I do not see why YOU should bother yourself further about it,” she said. “It is only a matter between myself and him; you can leave it to me.”
“But if you are mistaken and he should not be living?”
“I am not mistaken. I am even certain now that I have seen him.”
“Seen him!”
“Yes,” said the girl with the first trace of animation in her face. “It was four or five months ago when we were visiting the Briones at Monterey. We had ridden out to the old Mission by moonlight. There were some Mexicans lounging around the posada, and one of them attracted my attention by the way he seemed to watch me, without revealing any more of his face than I could see between his serape and the black silk handkerchief that was tied around his head under his sombrero. But I knew he was an American—and his eyes were familiar. I believe it was he.”