Mrs. Tucker instinctively knew that he spoke the truth, and that it was impossible for him to convey it in any other than his natural manner; but between the shock and the singular influence of that manner she could at first only say, “You don’t mean it!” fully conscious of the utter inanity of the remark, and that it seemed scarcely less cold-blooded than his own.

Poindexter, still smiling, nodded.

She arose with an effort.  She had recovered from the first shock, and pride lent her a determined calmness that more than equaled Poindexter’s easy philosophy.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“At sea, and I hope by this time where he can not be found or followed.”

Was her momentary glimpse of the outgoing ship a coincidence, or only a vision?  She was confused and giddy, but, mastering her weakness, she managed to continue in a lower voice: 

“You have no message for me from him?  He told you nothing to tell me?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” replied Poindexter.  “It was as much as he could do, I reckon, to get fairly away before the crash came.”

“Then you did not see him go?”

“Well, no,” said Poindexter.  “I’d hardly have managed things in this way.”  He checked himself and added, with a forgiving smile, “But he was the best judge of what he needed, of course.”

“I suppose I will hear from him,” she said quietly, “as soon as he is safe.  He must have had enough else to think about, poor fellow.”

She said this so naturally and quietly that Poindexter was deceived.  He had no idea that the collected woman before him was thinking only of solitude and darkness, of her own room, and madly longing to be there.  He said, “Yes, I dare say,” in quite another voice, and glanced at the picture.  But as she remained standing, he continued more earnestly, “I didn’t come here to tell you what you might read in the newspapers to-morrow morning, and what everybody might tell you.  Before that time I want you to do something to save a fragment of your property from the ruin; do you understand?  I want you to make a rally, and bring off something in good order.”

“For him?” said Mrs. Tucker, with brightening eyes.

“Well, yes, of course—­if you like—­but as if for yourself.  Do you know the Rancho de los Cuervos?”

“I do.”

“It’s almost the only bit of real property your husband hasn’t sold, mortgaged, or pledged.  Why it was exempt, or whether only forgotten, I can’t say.”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Mrs. Tucker, with a slight return of color.  “It was the first land we ever bought, and Spencer always said it should be mine and he would build a new house on it.”

Captain Poindexter smiled and nodded at the picture.  “Oh, he did say that, did he?  Well, that’s evidence.  But you see he never gave you the deed, and by sunrise to-morrow his creditors will attach it—­unless—­”