I was sure you would go."
They were to be married in the fall. The glamour was at its
height. The plovers won the day--or, rather, the afternoon--over
the calf-bound authorities. Littlefield began to put his papers
away.
There was a knock at the door. Kilpatrick answered it. A beautiful,
dark-eyed girl with a skin tinged with the faintest lemon colour
walked into the room. A black shawl was thrown over her head and
wound once around her neck.
She began to talk in Spanish, a voluble, mournful stream of melancholy
music. Littlefield did not understand Spanish. The deputy did, and
he translated her talk by portions, at intervals holding up his hand
to check the flow of her words.
"She came to see you, Mr. Littlefield. Her name's Joya Trevinas. She
wants to see you about--well, she's mixed up with that Rafael Ortiz.
She's his--she's his girl. She says he's innocent. She says she
made the money and got him to pass it. Don't you believe her, Mr.
Littlefield. That's the way with these Mexican girls; they'll lie,
steal, or kill for a fellow when they get stuck on him. Never trust a
woman that's in love!"
"Mr. Kilpatrick!"
Nancy Derwent's indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounder
for a moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his own
sentiments, and then he went on with the translation:
"She says she's willing to take his place in the jail if you'll let
him out.
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