The sun broke from behind the obscuring cloud and sent a shaft of light straight down upon the clearing. It illumined with pitiless distinctness the shimmering silk of a woman’s dress, hanging on a line and waving in the first draft of the evening breeze. For a moment Polly stood transfixed. What did it mean? Was it perhaps a servant’s dress. No; he had told her that there was no woman servant.
As she sought the solution, a woman’s figure emerged from the porch of the quinta, crossed the compound, and dropped upon a bench. Even at that distance, the watcher could tell from the woman’s bearing and apparel that she was not of the servant class. She seemed to be gazing out over the mountains; there was something dreary and forlorn in her attitude. What, then, did she do in the beetle man’s house?
Below the rock the shrubbery weaved and thrashed, and the person who could best answer that question burst into view at a full lope.
“What is it?” he panted. “Was it you who fired?”
She stared at him mutely. The revolver hung in her hand. In a moment he was beside her.
“Has anything happened?” he began again, then turned his head to follow the direction of her regard. He saw the figure in the compound.
“Good God in heaven!” he groaned.
He caught the revolver from her hand and fired three slow shots. The woman turned. Snatching off his hat, he signalled violently with it. The woman rose and, as it seemed to Polly Brewster, moved in humble submissiveness back to the shelter.
White consternation was stamped on the Unspeakable Perk’s face as he handed the revolver to its owner.
“Do you need me?” he asked quickly. “If not, I must go back at once.”