For here behold the Colonel in the rôle of gay deceiver. During all of the latter part of the interview he had been scheming. A new use for money had come into his mind. He signed the note in entire good faith, and would sell property to meet it; but this particular fifteen thousand dollars would never see the Fremont Hotel. That impecunious hostelry would have to be helped out in another way.
"Very hungry, Puss?" he asked.
"Hungry!" she scorned, "after such a breakfast! And at that hour!"
"Want to take a little drive and have fruit for lunch?"
"Where? Oh, let's! But how will we let them know at home?"
"I see Manuelo ahead. That is what gave me the notion," said the Colonel, pointing with his whip. "He can take them word."
Daphne settled back blissfully. These impromptu excursions were by no means unusual, and they were always good fun. The Colonel might drive his chestnuts directly across country to some distant spring or windmill to see how the cattle were making out. In that case there were exciting dives down the precipitous sides of barrancas with brakes squealing, and the jerk at the bottom as the horses took up the slack in preparation for the plunge up the other side; and tippy progressions along flower starred side hills when it seemed that they must turn over; and bump-itty-bumps across the bottom lands, with ground squirrels scurrying to the holes, and the little burrowing owls bobbing. Or he might drop in on some of his outposts, little adobe buildings whitewashed, in which case there were generally fat comfortable Mexican women and brown children, and a meal of Spanish dishes; but in any event, even when women lacked, one was sure of friendly dogs.
To-day, however, they continued straight on past the Avenue of Palms along the Camino Real, so Daphne knew they were going to Las Flores.
Las Flores was an old-fashioned Spanish ranch house situated atop a low wide knoll. It was one-storied and built in patio style, of course, with casement windows opening outward,
