“Suits me fine. I’ll go and break it to Hard that he can’t get married till morning. I suppose this Spanish chap won’t object to marryin’ a couple of Presbyterians? That’s what they say they are.”
“Gosh, no, the Padre’s a regular fellow,” replied Penhallow, easily. “You give him his fee and he ain’t going to raise no rows.”
The dining-room of Sam Penhallow’s hotel was a fair-sized room with one long dinner table and three small round ones. These latter were a concession to the habits of certain citizens who brought their sweethearts on the nights that Sam served chicken suppers and who were partial to parties carrés. It was to one of these small tables that Scott led his party. Altogether, thanks to the efforts of Mabel and her influence upon a certain invisible person whose identity changed often but who was always to be identified as the “help,” things were much better at the Commonwealth than one had a right to expect in a town the size of Chula Vista. Compared to Conejo, it was like entering into the promised land.
Mabel, herself, waited at table, and in the just opinion of most of the boarders, added fifty per cent, to the pleasure of the occasion. On this particular night the room was full and she had the assistance of a smiling young Mexican girl who waited on a company of her compatriots who sat at the farthest of the small tables. They had just ridden in—their horses could be seen outside at the rail. The back of the head of one of these gentlemen interested Polly immensely. There was something about it which reminded her strongly of Juan Pachuca.
“Do those Mexicans live in Chula Vista?” she asked Mabel, under cover of a laugh at one of Hard’s stories.
“No, they’re strangers,” replied the girl. “I think they come from a ranch out of town.”
Of course it couldn’t be Pachuca! He was in hiding somewhere down yonder, and yet—the party was on her mind and she noticed it as it broke up and the men passed out of the dining-room. She caught a side view of the suspected one—it was Pachuca, without a doubt. Whether he saw her or not she could not say but if he did he avoided showing it.
The girl’s first inclination was to call Scott’s attention to the Mexican; then she hesitated—it would mean trouble. There would be fighting and someone would be hurt. Scott’s back was toward them and he talked along quite innocent of the presence of Pachuca. While she hesitated the moment passed, the Mexicans were out of the room and she saw them mount their horses and ride off. Scott and Hard were still deep in argument. Whether Clara saw or not Polly could not tell.
“Marc,” Polly stopped beside him as they left the dining-room, “I’ve a nasty little headache—shall you mind if I go to bed?”
Scott, a bit surprised, replied in the negative and Polly went on, her hand on his arm coaxingly: