She was self-possessed, even smiling,
with a certain dour serenity.
"The day's doings have tired me," she said. "I am off to bed. Will
you rap on my door soon after dawn?"
"Yes," he replied, secretly marveling at her air.
"I plead guilty to a slight feeling of nervousness," she went on. "Is
your revolver loaded? Would you mind lending it to me? I think I
could sleep more soundly if I had a reliable weapon tucked under my
pillow."
A whiff of suspicion crossed Christobal's mind, but he brushed it aside
as unworthy. At five o'clock that day he certainly would not have
granted her request. But now, since the new hope had sprung up that
Courtenay was alive, it was absurd to doubt her motives.
So it came to pass that Diego Suarez, lying asleep in his bunk, awoke
with a start to find a shrouded figure bending over him.
"Is that you, Senor Suarez?" asked a voice, which he recognized
instantly as belonging to the Senorita Maxwell.
"Yes," said he, drowsily.
"Have you the witch-doctor's clothes you wore when you came on board
the ship?"
"But yes, senorita."
A hand, slight but strong, grasped him by the shoulder.
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