“It's all right; the men are all in the courtyard, or in the front of the house. The boudoir door is strong, and we can bolt them out.”
“It won't be necessary,” said Clarence quietly; “you will not be disturbed.”
“But are you not coming in?” she asked timidly, holding the window open.
Clarence looked at her with his first faint smile since Peyton's death.
“Of course I am, but not in THAT way. I am going in by THE FRONT GATE.”
She would have detained him, but, with a quick wave of his hand, he left her, and ran swiftly around the wall of the casa toward the front. The gate was half open; a dozen excited men were gathered before it and in the archway, and among them, whitened with dust, blackened with powder, and apparently glutted with rapine, and still holding a revolver in his hand, was Jim Hooker! As Clarence approached, the men quickly retreated inside the gate and closed it, but not before he had exchanged a meaning glance with Jim. When he reached the gate, a man from within roughly demanded his business.
“I wish to see the leader of this party,” said Clarence quietly.
“I reckon you do,” returned the man, with a short laugh. “But I kalkilate HE don't return the compliment.”
“He probably will when he reads this note to his employer,” continued Clarence still coolly, selecting a paper from his pocketbook. It was addressed to Francisco Robles, Superintendent of the Sisters' Title, and directed him to give Mr. Clarence Brant free access to the property and the fullest information concerning it. The man took it, glanced at it, looked again at Clarence, and then passed the paper to a third man among the group in the courtyard. The latter read it, and approached the gate carelessly.
“Well, what do you want?”