She smiled. "I want you to promise me something," she begged. "You mustn't be angry."
He looked his question.
Her eyes searched his deep. "I want you to promise me you will not kill Francisco. I could not have that. After all he has cared for me for nine years, and he is the husband of the one I love."
There was more implied in this than was spoken. Greg understood. "I promise you," he said gravely,—"unless it is a question of defending myself."
"Do not think that I mean to let him go free," she said; "he shall be punished, terribly punished; but it must be in the way that I set."
CHAPTER XXI
UP-STAIRS AND DOWN
Leaving all cabs at home this time, they proceeded in couples by different streets to a rendezvous at the northeast corner of Stuyvesant Square. Greg and Estuban walked up First Avenue to Seventeenth, then west to the meeting-place, thus passing the house that was their objective.
Their examination of it revealed these salient facts: there was no light in any window; the basement windows were protected by iron bars, the basement door by an iron gate, while above, before the front door, heavy oak storm-doors were closed. In short, a wholly unpromising prospect.
"We need an ax to get into this," said Estuban dejectedly.