“No, Ramon,” she said softly, but without withdrawing her hand.  “It can never be—­listen.”

It was terrific, to hold in cheek a nature such as his.

“I went into this scheme for—­for money.  I have it.  We have raised nearly forty thousand dollars.  Twenty thousand you have given me as my share.”

She paused.  He was paying no attention to her words.  His whole self was centered on her face.

“With me,” she continued, half wearily withdrawing her hand as she assumed the part she had decided on for herself, “with me, Ramon, love is dead—­dead.  I have seen too much of the world.  Nothing has any fascination for me now except excitement, money—­”

He gently leaned over and recovered the hand that she had withdrawn.  Quickly he raised it to his lips as he had done that first night.

“You are mine,” he whispered, “not his.”

She did not withdraw the hand this time.

“No—­not his—­nobody’s.”

For a moment the adventurers understood each other.

“Not his,” he muttered fiercely as he threw his arms about her wildly, passionately.

“Nobody’s,” she panted as she gave one answering caress, then struggled from him.

She had conquered not only Ramon Santos but Constance Dunlap.

Early the next morning he was speeding southward over the clicking rails.

Every energy must be bent toward keeping the new scheme secret until it was carried out successfully.  Not a hint must get to Drummond that there was any change in the activities of the Junta.  As for the Junta itself, there was no one of those who believed implicitly in Santos whom Constance need fear, except Gordon.  Gordon was the bete noire.

Two days passed and she was able to guard the secret, as well as to act as though nothing had happened.  Santos had left a short note for the Junta telling them that he would be away for a short time putting the finishing touches on the purchase of the arms.  The arrival of a cartload of cases at the Junta, which Constance arranged for herself, bore out the letter.  Still, she waited anxiously for word from him.

The day set for the sailing of the Arroyo arrived and with it at last a telegram:  “Buy corn, oats, wheat.  Sell cotton.”

It was the code, telling of the safe arrival of the rifles, cartridges and the counterfeiting plant in New Orleans, a little late, but safe.  “Sell cotton,” meant “I sail to-night.”

On the way over to the Junta, she had noticed one of Drummond’s shadows dogging her.  She must do anything to keep the secret until that night.

She hurried into the dusty ship chandlery.  There was Gordon.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dunlap,” he cried.  “You are just the person I am looking for.  Where is Santos?  Has the plan been changed?”

Constance thought she detected a shade of jealousy in the tone.  At any rate, Gordon was more attentive than ever.