DICK’S after-dark visit to La Siesta was only the first of several that
followed at intervals of a few days. He came and departed mysteriously,
and during his brief stay every precaution was taken that no one except
his few trusted friends should know of his presence. But by some means
or other a whisper had reached the ear of the sleuth, Leach Sharkey,
that the fugitive had been seen at the home of Mrs. Darlington.
When the news was imparted to Ben Thurston, the old man quivered from
excitement.
“At La Siesta, do you tell me? Let us ride over there at once, and
search the place from basement to attic.”
“No, no,” replied Sharkey. “I’ve got my scouts out. Don’t you worry. We
must wait till the night bird comes back. Then we’ll trap him like a fat
quail.”
“All right. Have my automobile ready, and a bunch of well-armed fellows
right here, so that we can make a rush over at a moment’s notice. By
God, I’ve been disappointed in everything else—lost my son, lost my
ranch, lost my home. But I’m not going to lose that man. I’m going to
get him, even if we shoot him down on sight as an outlawed fugitive from
justice with a price on his head.”
“We’ll get him,” answered Sharkey, with a grim smile. “You may count him
a dead bird. I guessed he wouldn’t keep away from his girl very long.”
“His girl! Curse her—it was she who lured my son to his death. But I’ll
be avenged. If she has been harboring an outlaw, she, too, has broken
the law and shall go to jail.”
“Well, she no doubt thinks him innocent,” suggested the sleuth.
“Innocent! All women are alike—treacherous devils at heart. I would give
them the vote—yes, but the rope at the same time,” he went on, growling
in savage incoherence.
And Sharkey, knowing that discussion or contradiction only added fresh
fuel to his vile temper, left him alone.
At last, a few nights later, a rider dashed up to Ben Thurston’s house
with the news that Dick Willoughby had been seen entering La Siesta, and
that, following Sharkey’s instructions, every avenue of escape was now
guarded.
“Hurry, hurry! I’ve got to be in at the death,” fairly screamed the old
man.
Five minutes later the big seven-passenger automobile, carrying three or
four armed men besides its owner and his personal guard, Leach Sharkey,
was devouring the twenty miles of road that lay between the two ranch
homes.
That evening the four young people were quietly chatting in the cosy
corner on the interior verandah—the comfortable little nook fixed up
with rugs and tapestries and oriental divans. It was summer now, and
after a sultry day the night air was sweet and balmy. Willoughby was
smoking a cigar in languid contentment with his surroundings, when all
at once he sprang to his feet.
Tia Teresa had rushed in, frantic with excitement.
“A great big automobile is coming along the road,” she cried, “and
there are men watching outside the portico. Come with me,” she went on,
addressing Dick. “I know where your horses are hid. I can take you by a
secret path through the oleanders.”
Dick vaguely wondered why the duenna should know anything about his mode
of coming. But there was no time to question, for just then there came
the sound of voices outside.
Mrs. Darlington, pale and agitated, emerged from the drawing room.
“What has happened?” she asked breathlessly.
“I guess I’m trapped,” replied Dick quietly. “No doubt it’s old
Thurston. There will be shooting if I resist. So there is nothing for it
but to surrender.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Merle. “I dread that vindictive man. He must never
get you in his power again. We must gain time to smuggle you out of
the house. I have it. Tia Teresa—give me your mantilla and your cloak.
Quick, quick!”
A first loud knocking had come on the door at the head of the portico
steps. The duenna in a moment had divested herself of her loose black
robe and heavy lace veil.
“Get something else to wear and meet us at the oleanders,” continued
Merle, taking the garments from Tia Teresa. “Put these on, Dick, and
sit right there in that corner. Mr. Munson, turn off two or three of the
lights. Mother, dear, control yourself. Take this book and be reading.
Now, that will do. They will be here in a moment.”
A second knock had been heard, and now they knew that the door was being
opened without further ceremony, for at placid La Siesta there were no
bolts or bars against unwelcome visitors.
In that brief minute a wonderful transformation scene had taken place in
the cosy corner. Tia Teresa had disappeared. Munson was stretched on
a sofa, puffing his cigar. Merle and Grace had been playing patience
during the afternoon and had left the cards in scattered confusion. Mrs.
Darlington, beneath the single incandescent aglow, was quietly reading.
From the darksome corner the pretended duenna surveyed this peaceful
scene of domesticity.
It was Ben Thurston himself who led the way for his swarm of myrmidons.
He began without formality; his tone was coarse and rude.
“We want the outlaw, Dick Willoughby. We know he is here. So make no
fuss. Deliver him over.”
Mrs. Darlington had risen to her feet, and Munson, too, had sprung
erect.
“What do you mean?” asked the lady with quiet dignity.
“You know darned well what I mean.”
Munson stepped forward, but he played the game best by keeping himself
under perfect control.
“You will speak civilly, Mr. Thurston, or leave this house. What is
wanted?” he added, turning to Leach Sharkey.
“We want Dick Willoughby, of course,” the sleuth replied, politely
enough. “We have reason to believe he is here.”
“Well, you can see for yourself whether he is here or not,” said Munson,
glancing around. “But if you wish to look through the house, I don’t
suppose Mrs. Darlington will refuse you permission.”
The lady bowed her acquiescence.
“With your consent, Mrs. Darlington,” Munson went on, “I’ll show these
gentlemen round and save you the annoyance. Come along then.”
Ben Thurston had been fairly silenced by the army man’s suave courtesy.
He was glowering at him, dully conscious of having been suppressed.
Munson turned from the sleuth.
“Perhaps Mr. Thurston would prefer to remain with the ladies?” he asked,
with a touch of smiling irony.
“I don’t leave my man Sharkey,” replied Thurston gruffly. “Sharkey, keep
close watch on me. We’ll search the place, but you stay near me all
the time.” Once again there was the old hunted look in his eyes as he
glanced apprehensively into the courtyard.
“Then follow me,” said Munson quietly.
“You have left a guard at the door of course?” asked Thurston of
Sharkey.
“Oh, you just allow me to know my business,” replied the detective
sharply. He bowed to Mrs. Darlington and her daughters. “I am really
sorry to disturb you, ladies.”
“Then get the business over as soon as possible,” said Munson. “Come
along.”
The moment the coast was clear, Merle jumped up.
“Quick! Mr. Willoughby. Follow me downstairs. I’ll take you through the
kitchen to the rose gardens.”
It was a strange looking duenna that stalked after Merle, with a robe
reaching only to the knees. But at the head of the kitchen stairway Dick
discarded the now useless garments, flinging them across the balustrade.
“We must trust to our good luck now, Merle,” he said.
“Never fear. It won’t desert us. Hurry on.”
At the clump of oleanders they found Tia Teresa, provided with another
shawl. Not a moment was to be wasted in words. Merle just pressed Dick’s
hand by way of farewell. As he hastened away down the dark path, she,
too, sped from the spot.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later Ben Thurston, going the round of the
house, came to the head of the kitchen stairs. He saw the black cloak
and mantilla on the balustrade.
“By God!” he cried with swift inspiration of what had happened. “We’ve
been properly fooled! Where is that old hag of a duenna?”
Gathering the vestments in his hands he rushed through the house to the
verandah. Merle was quietly seated with her mother and Grace. But there
was no sign now of Tia Teresa.
Sharkey had followed close on his employer’s heels. Munson came a few
paces behind.
Ben Thurston glared for a moment at the vacant place where the
black-robed figure had been seated. Then he turned round and, addressing
Mrs. Darlington, fairly shouted:
“Where is Dick Willoughby? It was he who was wearing these damned
clothes.” And he flung the garments on the rug before her.
“No swearing, please,” said Munson, tapping him on the shoulder.
“To hell! Who wouldn’t swear? Where is the man I’m after?”
“An innocent man,” exclaimed Merle, rising to her feet and proudly
folding her arms.
“Looks like it—breaking jail and hiding in the hills,” sneered Thurston.
“He is nothing but a murderer and an outlaw. And I’m going to get him,
dead or alive.”
“Then catch him if you can,” cried Merle, pointing toward the door that
opened on the portico.
Under the girl’s fearless gaze Ben Thurston wilted. Baffled, humiliated,
speechless in his impotent rage, he allowed the sleuth to take him by
the arm and hustle him from the scene.