Rogers, two years Susy’s senior, a serious brunette, whose good-humor did not, however, impair her capacity for sentiment, was impressed and even embarrassed by her demeanor; but only for a moment.  When they had driven from the hotel and were fairly hidden again in the dust of the outlying plain, with the discreet Pedro hovering in the distance, Susy dropped the reins, and, grasping her companion’s arm, gasped, in tones of dramatic intensity:—­

“He’s been heard from, and is coming here!”

“Who?”

A sickening sense that her old confidante had already lost touch with her—­they had been separated for nearly two weeks—­might have passed through Susy’s mind.

“Who?” she repeated, with a vicious shake of Mary’s arm, “why, Clarence Brant, of course.”

“No!” said Mary, vaguely.

Nevertheless, Susy went on rapidly, as if to neutralize the effect of her comrade’s vacuity.

“You never could have imagined it!  Never!  Even I, when mother told me, I thought I should have fainted, and all would have been revealed!”

“But,” hesitated the still wondering confidante, “I thought that was all over long ago.  You haven’t seen him nor heard from him since that day you met accidentally at Santa Clara, two years ago, have you?”

Susy’s eyes shot a blue ray of dark but unutterable significance into Mary’s, and then were carefully averted.  Mary Rogers, although perfectly satisfied that Susy had never seen Clarence since, nevertheless instantly accepted and was even thrilled with this artful suggestion of a clandestine correspondence.  Such was the simple faith of youthful friendship.

“Mother knows nothing of it, of course, and a word from you or him would ruin everything,” continued the breathless Susy.  “That’s why I came to fetch you and warn you.  You must see him first, and warn him at any cost.  If I hadn’t run every risk to come here to-day, Heaven knows what might have happened!  What do you think of the ponies, dear?  They’re my own, and the sweetest!  This one’s Susy, that one Clarence,—­but privately, you know.  Before the world and in the stables he’s only Birdie.”

“But I thought you wrote to me that you called them ’Paul and Virginie,’” said Mary doubtfully.

“I do, sometimes,” said Susy calmly.  “But one has to learn to suppress one’s feelings, dear!” Then quickly, “I do so hate deceit, don’t you?  Tell me, don’t you think deceit perfectly hateful?”

Without waiting for her friend’s loyal assent, she continued rapidly:  “And he’s just rolling in wealth! and educated, papa says, to the highest degree!”

“Then,” began Mary, “if he’s coming with your mother’s consent, and if you haven’t quarreled, and it is not broken off, I should think you’d be just delighted.”

But another quick flash from Susy’s eyes dispersed these beatific visions of the future.  “Hush!” she said, with suppressed dramatic intensity.  “You know not what you say!  There’s an awful mystery hangs over him.  Mary Rogers,” continued the young girl, approaching her small mouth to her confidante’s ear in an appalling whisper.  “His father was—­a pirate!  Yes—­lived a pirate and was killed a pirate!”