Mrs. Conrad was silent for a moment. “Two years ago,” she said, quietly. “While he lived, we managed to hold down the plantation fairly well. He got on well with the government, and he organized the peons and fought off the bandits. Since then, things have gone rather badly; it takes a man to handle that kind of a situation. I’ve been raided six times in two years and my patience is almost gone.
“I wrote up here to Victor; he’s always been a good friend of mine—I studied with him in London, you know, and knew his wife well. He advised me to sell and go home. I didn’t take his advice about selling; I couldn’t get anything decent for the place right now, and I’ve a fairly good man running it for me. I have faith in this country and I intend to come back some day and go on with my plantation.”
“You always were plucky, Clara.” Hard touched a match to his fire. “But Mexico’s no place for you. Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Clara, frankly. “Back to the States, of course, but where and for what I don’t know. But I hope—my music.”
“Your music?”
“Victor says it’s not too late—but—well, perhaps. I’m out of the way of cities, and I’ve enough so that I don’t have to do anything, but—oh, I would love to be at it again!”
Hard smiled. “You will, Clara. You’re not an idler—as I am. You’ll be in the thick of it in no time.”
“Ah, you have found one another! I thought perhaps you would.” Herrick’s voice broke in upon their talk. He was followed by Polly and Scott, and introductions and explanations came naturally.
“It’s not a Mexican refugee, and it is the lady of the photograph!” Polly said to herself, triumphantly. “But it doesn’t look to me much like a love affair. They’ve got over it evidently.”
“So you also were raided by Juan Pachuca?” said Mrs. Conrad, as Scott seated himself beside her. The latter nodded.