* * * * *
II
And Clinch's mind was on her. All else — his watchfulness, his stealthy advance — all the alertness of eye and ear, all the subtlety, the cunning, the infinite caution — were purely instinctive mechanics.
Somewhere in this flooded twilight of gigantic trees was Jose Quintana. Knowing that, he dismissed that fact from his mind and turned his thoughts to Eve.
Sometimes his lips moved. They usually did when he was arguing with God or calling his Creator's attention to the justice of his case. His two cases — each, to him, a cause celebre; the matter of Harrod; the affair of Quintana.
Many a time he had pleaded these two causes before the Most High.
But now his thoughts were chiefly concerned with Eve — with the problem of her future — his master passion — this daughter of the dead wife he had loved.
He sighed unconsciously; halted.
"Well, Lord," he concluded, in his wordless way, "my girlie has gotta have a chance if I gotta go to hell for it. That's sure as shootin'. … Amen."
At that instant he saw Quintana.