She went in to rest a little before dressing for dinner, and, being fatigued from the day’s riding and excitement, she fell asleep. When she awoke it was twilight. She wondered why her Mexican maid had not come to her, and she rang the bell. The maid did not put in an appearance, nor was there any answer to the ring. The house seemed unusually quiet. It was a brooding silence, which presently broke to the sound of footsteps on the porch. Madeline recognized Stillwell’s tread, though it appeared to be light for him. Then she heard him call softly in at the open door of her office. The suggestion of caution in his voice suited the strangeness of his walk. With a boding sense of trouble she hurried through the rooms. He was standing outside her office door.
“Stillwell!” she exclaimed.
“Anybody with you?” he asked, in a low tone.
“No.”
“Please come out on the porch,” he added.
She complied, and, once out, was enabled to see him. His grave face, paler than she had ever beheld it, caused her to stretch an appealing hand toward him. Stillwell intercepted it and held it in his own.
“Miss Majesty, I’m amazin’ sorry to tell worrisome news.” He spoke almost in a whisper, cautiously looked about him, and seemed both hurried and mysterious. “If you’d heerd Stewart cuss you’d sure know how we hate to hev to tell you this. But it can’t be avoided. The fact is we’re in a bad fix. If your guests ain’t scared out of their skins it’ll be owin’ to your nerve an’ how you carry out Stewart’s orders.”
“You can rely upon me,” replied Madeline, firmly, though she trembled.
“Wal, what we’re up against is this: that gang of bandits Pat Hawe was chasin’—they’re hidin’ in the house!”
“In the house?” echoed Madeline, aghast.