The man, as he spoke, entered the hall, the policeman and the stranger following him. Under the flare of the two gas-jets they looked big, ungainly figures in their smoking rubber capes that ran rillets of water on the floor. The third, revealed in the full light, was a boy of some fourteen or fifteen years, well dressed and with the air of a gentleman.
“This gentleman came to the station a half-hour ago,” said the policeman, indicating the stranger, “with a story of finding a lady on his own grounds, and we thought from his description it was the one you’re looking for.”
Barron directed on the youth a glance that would have pried open the lips of the Sphinx.
“What does she look like? Where is she?”
“She’s in our garden,” said the boy, “under some trees. She looks tall and has on black clothes, and has dark red hair and a very white face.”
Mrs. Garcia gave a loud cry from the background.
“It’s Mariposa sure,” she screamed. “Is she alive?”
“Alive!” echoed the youth. “Oh, yes, she’s quite alive, but I don’t know whether she’s exactly in her right mind. She’s sort of queer.”
Barron had brushed past him into the streaming night.
“Come on,” he shouted back. “Good Lord, come quick!”