Lucia didn't take him seriously. She hardly remembered that they were so
close to the border of Mexico. "Bandits?" she scoffed. "Oh, but they just
steal cows and things, don't they?"

"Worse than that." Gilbert was serious, and gave her an appraising glance.
"Human life means little in Mexico. They even kill their prisoners in cold
blood."

But still Lucia was not alarmed. "If that's true," she smiled, "I won't go
without you, if you wish it that way." She looked knowingly at him.

"It isn't what I wish," Jones answered. "Nothing is what I wish."

"Well," Uncle Henry put in, "you're going to get your wish all right." As
he spoke, Morgan Pell came through the alcove from his room, and the old
invalid steered his chair so that he faced him. Pell looked anything but
engaging to-day. There was something about him that repelled--people could
never say what it was; but one sensed a latent cruelty in the man. His eyes
were shifty, and there were little lines about his mouth that spoke of his
days of dissipation. It was hard to associate him with the flower-like
Lucia. Here were a man and woman never meant for each other--that was
evident immediately; yet he had that old power that seemed to hypnotize
her. And she was not the only woman who had fallen beneath his spell. But
now, apparently, he did not see her.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pell," said old Smith to the newcomer.

"How are you?" the latter answered, with no show of interest.