“But for what?” asked Poindexter, with demure lips but twinkling eyes.

“To pay the debts that this—­this—­woman has led him into; to return the money she has stolen!” she went on rapidly, “to keep him from sharing her infamy!  Can’t you understand?”

“But, my dear madam,” began Poindexter, “even if this could be done—­”

“Don’t tell me ’if it could’—­it must be done.  Do you think I could sleep under this roof, propped up by the timbers of that ruined tienda?  Do you think I could wear those diamonds again, while that termagant shop-woman can say that her money bought them?  No.  If you are my husband’s friend you will do this—­for—­for his sake.”  She stopped, locked and interlocked her cold fingers before her, and said, hesitating and mechanically, “You meant well, Captain Poindexter, in bringing me here, I know!  You must not think that I blame you for it, or for the miserable result of it that you have just witnessed.  But if I have gained anything by it, for God’s sake let me reap it quickly, that I may give it to these people and go!  I have a friend who can aid me to get to my husband or to my home in Kentucky, where Spencer will yet find me, I know.  I want nothing more.”  She stopped again.  With another woman the pause would have been one of tears.  But she kept her head above the flood that filled her heart, and the clear eyes fixed upon Poindexter, albeit pained, were undimmed.

“But this would require time,” said Poindexter, with a smile of compassionate explanation; “you could not sell now, nobody would buy.  You are safe to hold this property while you are in actual possession, but you are not strong enough to guarantee it to another.  There may still be litigation; your husband has other creditors than these people you have talked with.  But while nobody could oust you—­the wife who would have the sympathies of judge and jury—­it might be a different case with any one who derived title from you.  Any purchaser would know that you could not sell, or if you did, it would be at a ridiculous sacrifice.”

She listened to him abstractedly, walked to the end of the corridor, returned, and without looking up, said,—­

“I suppose you know her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This woman.  You have seen her?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“And you are his friend!  That’s strange.”  She raised her eyes to his.  “Well,” she continued impatiently, “who is she? and what is she?  You know that surely?”

“I know no more of her than what I have said,” said Poindexter.  “She is a notorious woman.”

The swift color came to Mrs. Tucker’s face as if the epithet had been applied to herself.  “I suppose,” she said in a dry voice, as if she were asking a business question, but with an eye that showed her rising anger,—­“I suppose there is some law by which creatures of this kind can be followed and brought to justice—­some law that would keep innocent people from suffering for their crimes?”