“Guessed it! I knew it when she raised her protesting finger.”
“You are a magician, Mr. Robles,” cried Grace.
“No, only a logician,” was the sententious rejoinder.
“Please let me peep at our garden,” asked Merle. “I wonder if mother is among her roses.”
Without a word Robles swung round the instrument on its pivot and changed the focus.
“That’s about right,” he said, stepping back. “There is no one out of doors at present. Move the glass slightly and you can see over the entire garden.”
Each girl in turn made a prolonged scrutiny; they were enchanted with the clearness and marvellous detail of the picture.
“Henceforth we’ll have to be on our best behavior, Dick,” laughed Munson, as they turned toward the winding stairway. “We’ve got to remember Mr. Robles has a constant eye on us.”
“Perhaps I’ve had you under observation quite a while,” laughed the senor, tapping the young fellow on the shoulder.
Then he threw open the door, and, with a slight bow and extended hand, motioned to his visitors to descend. At the foot of the narrow, winding staircase they found the Mexican youth standing on guard. He bowed low as the ladies passed, and when Mr. Robles followed last of all, saluted, and then immediately returned to the chamber above, again without a single word of instruction from his master. Munson and Willoughby exchanged meaning looks; obviously a well-disciplined outlook was kept from the observatory all the time, as if from the conning-tower of a battleship.