“Let me take your hats,” she said, smiling at them. “Sit down. Papa will be right in.”
They sat down, and Merry, finding a guitar, soon occupied himself. Having tightened the strings and put the instrument in tune, he strummed lightly upon it, singing a soft little song to the girl, who came and stood near, her hands clasped, looking at him earnestly.
While Merry was singing, Juan Delores came to the door and paused a moment. He looked in and beheld the spectacle. It reassured him and banished his fears. When he came in he closed and bolted the door.
“I see you make yorse’f at home,” he said. “Good!”
He was a man with a Spanish face and deep, dark eyes. His face was not exactly handsome, and yet about it there was something fascinating. He had a mustache and imperial, which had once been coal-black, but were now heavily mixed with gray.
Delores had studied Merriwell’s face as he stood outside the door, and what he saw seemed to restore his confidence. Surely, this frank-appearing youth who was singing to Felicia could not be very bad.
But, when he looked at Bart, Delores was not so sure, for the face of Hodge was not one so easily read.
Felicia clapped her hands.
“Oh, that’s a fine song!” she cried.
“You like music, do you?”