“Oh, yes, all, even Teniente Adriance, Isabel. I heard all about you and your affair with him. Have a care!”
“No. He is good. It is not in him to make a gambler and a rover of my brother.”
“He would make worse of your brother's sister, you fool,” the man muttered, with brutal emphasis. “Come now, no nonsense with that fellow; he's as good as married already, I tell you; he is to be married in two months.”
“Oh, it is not true!” was the fiery answer. “You lie!” And then, with feminine inconsequence, “Who is she? Who does he marry?”
“The Senorita Abert—a lovely girl, too, and rich—in San Francisco.”
“Yes, it is a lie, Staines, and you know it!” came in cool and measured tones, and Mr. Adriance suddenly stepped from the corner of the wall.
Staines dropped the captive's hand and recoiled a pace or two with a stifled exclamation, half amaze, half dismay; then with sudden effort strove to recover himself. “Well,” he exclaimed, with a nervous laugh; “talk of angels and you hear the rustle, etc. Indeed, lieutenant, I beg your pardon, though; I was merely joking with our little Mexican friend.”
“That will do, Mr. Staines; I know a joke when I hear one. Wait here a moment, if you please, for I want a word with you. Pardon me for startling you, senorita. Will you take my arm?”
The girl was trembling violently. With bowed head and fluttering heart she leaned upon the trooper's arm and was slowly led away toward the rancho, never seeming to note that the little brown hand that had been so firmly taken and drawn within by his was still tightly clasped by that cavalry gauntlet. The moment they were out of the earshot of Staines the lieutenant bent down.
“It was to see you I came here, Isabel; I had hoped to find you at the summer house. Come to me there in ten minutes, will you? I must see you before I go. First, though, I have to investigate that fellow Staines.”