“I hope I haven’t said anything to offend you,” stammered Munson.
“It is perhaps what you haven’t said that is the cause of trouble,” laughed the irrepressible Merle.
But Grace had fled from the room, and as the others followed, Merle went on:
“I said when we left home that two would be company but three—a complication. Wasn’t I right, lieutenant?”
“You are always right,” murmured Munson, too bewildered to think of anything else but the obvious gallant reply.
He stood at the gateway watching the two young ladies as they cantered away. At the bend of the road Merle turned round in the saddle and waved her hand. But Grace rode steadily on.
“By jove, that’s as good as telling me that I can sail in and win,” he said to himself. “Thank you, Merle, little girl. Next time Grace and I are alone, my fate will be sealed.”
But no one called again during Mr. Robles’ absence—not even Tia Teresa.
It was toward evening a few days later when the recluse strolled into the library. Munson did not know that he had returned, and rose from his seat in some surprise.
“Still hard at work?” said Mr. Robles, as he nodded and shook hands.