His lips were white.  “Very well,” he said.  “It’s better for me that you’ve been frank.  All the same and all the more I want you to forgive me for speaking at a time like this.  I won’t offend you again.  Only I don’t take back anything.  So now you know.  Don’t try to talk, and I won’t talk much to you.  I don’t think I could if I would.  I’m going to drive you to Bakersfield.  But shall I take you to a kind old doctor I know, who can give you something to pick you up, or would you rather I’d drop you at a hotel?  For—­I can’t explain, so please don’t ask—­but I mustn’t let you go to Mrs. Gaylor’s again.  There’s a good reason why.  Maybe you’ll know some time, but I don’t believe it can ever be from me.  I’ll fetch your maid and your baggage when you’re settled somewhere.  And if you’re strong enough, the best thing will be to start for San Francisco to-night.  When you’re there, see Mr. Morehouse, and let him take good care of you.  For it’s true, as you said; you and I can’t go on being friends.”

Angela opened her lips to answer him, but could not.  He started the car once more, and drove on faster.

“I’ll go to a hotel, thank you, not to a doctor,” she said when she could speak.

* * * * *

Soon the news of the stampede among the new bunch of steers from Arizona found its way to the house, and Carmen was told what had happened.  The rush of the cattle had been stopped by the time she heard of it, but only at the brink of the big irrigation canal.  Two fences had been broken down and a good many animals killed.  Others had had to be shot.

“Anybody hurt?” Carmen asked in a queer, dry voice.  She seemed to take little interest in the fate of the new cattle, though they had been a costly purchase.

So far as was known, nobody had been hurt.  But it was too soon to be sure yet.  And there was no one who could tell up to that moment how the stampede had been started.  But some of the boys talked about a gun going off mysteriously.  And a lady had been seen in the disused pasture.  The boys had seen her running, and afterward being caught up by a man in a big yellow motor, what man they weren’t sure—­they’d been going too fast and were too far off—­but he was like Nick Hilliard.

And it was then that Simeon Harp came on to the terrace where Carmen was standing to hear the story.  Seeing his face she knew that things had gone utterly wrong, and that all hope was lost.

“Nick will know what I did!” she told herself, as the death-stab of failure struck her in the heart.  “Maybe he knows already.  If that woman has told him how I sent her out alone, and how I lied about his plans being changed, and the men he had to meet, then he must guess.  They’re sure to compare notes, and he’ll suspect about the poison-oak.”