"Everything all right?"
"Si, si." Madrigal sometimes was American and sometimes Mexican.
"I've had a dickens of a time getting trucks," said Reedy, speaking in a low, casual tone. "But I got 'em—twenty. Be unloaded to-morrow or the next day. I've arranged to take care of the duty. They are to be sold, you understand, with an actual bill of sale to each of the twenty Mexican chauffeurs you have employed."
Madrigal nodded lightly as though all of this was primer work for him.
"Have everything ready by the tenth. I think I can close up this water deal by that time."
As the Mexican left, Reedy reached for his telephone and called El Centro.
"Mrs. Barnett?" Soft oiliness oozed from his voice. "This is Reedy. What are you doing this evening? Nothing? How would you like a little spin out to the foot of the mountains to get a cool breath and watch the moon rise?—All right. I'll be along in about thirty minutes. By, by." The words sounded almost like kisses.
"Mrs. Barnett"—Reedy slowed down the machine as they drove off across the desert toward the foothills—"I owe everything to you."
The widow, all in white now—very light, cool white—felt a little shivery thrill of pride go over her. She half simpered and tried to sound deprecating.
"Oh, you merely flatter me." She was rolling a small dainty handkerchief in her palms.