Like a flash, Marie flattened herself against the bank--one more dark shadow among the others--and none too soon, for the second man was close upon them, so close they could hear the heavy rasp of his breathing.

Eveley had not time to raise herself for another spring, so she crouched against the bank in terror, hoping in his haste that he might pa.s.s them by. But as he came near he paused suddenly, his attention attracted by the sound of tearing brush, and the incoherent cries of his companion as he rolled down the canyon. Taking it as an indication that the chase was in that direction, he turned blindly to follow, and not knowing the lay of the land, lost his footing at once and fell headlong.

Eveley was upon her feet in an instant.

"Run, Marie," she whispered, and in less than a moment they were hurrying up the path behind the rose pergola under the magnolias and beneath the light from their Cloud Cote.

"Wait," whispered Marie. "Let's hide a moment. They might see us going up the stairs. Wait beneath the roses until they are gone."

Only faint sounds came up to them as the two men, bruised and sore, painfully picked themselves up from the rocks and the p.r.i.c.kly shrubs.

Evidently they realized there was no hope of further pursuit, for in a short while the girls could hear the faint echo of their heavy footsteps as they retraced their way down the canyon.

Eveley held Marie in her arms until the last sound had echoed away, and then silently they climbed the stairs, crossed the little garden on the roof, and crawled through the window into the safety of the Cote.

"Are you hurt, Marie?" asked Eveley, the first to break the tense silence that fell upon them when they were conscious of shelter and security.

Marie shook her head. Then she moved one step toward Eveley, and asked in a pleading whisper: "Are you angry with me? Do you hate me?"

"Oh, Marie, don't talk so," cried Eveley, nervous tears springing to her eyes. "How could I be angry with you? But I was so frightened and shocked. I did not know how very much I loved you. You must never go into the canyon again at night. Never once,--for one minute. Will you promise me?"

"I will promise whatever you wish, Eveley, you know."

Eveley smiled at her weakly, and turning to take off her wraps saw with surprise that the sleeves were torn almost from her coat.

"I must have come down with quite a bang," she said faintly, suddenly aware that her shoulders were quivering with pain.

With a little cry of pity, Marie ran to her, and tenderly helped to remove her blouse. The tears ran down her face when she saw the red and swollen shoulders beneath.

"Oh, my poor angel," she mourned. "All bruised and sore like that. For me. You never should have done it."

Very sweetly she bathed the shoulders, and when Eveley crept painfully into bed, she arranged soft compresses of cotton and oil for her to lie upon. And she asked, shyly, if she might sit by the bed.

"Until you fall asleep," she pleaded. "I can not leave you like this, when you are in such pain,--for me."

"Come and sleep with me, then," said Eveley. "I do not want to let you go off alone, either, when--something so terrible might have happened to you."

Eagerly and with great joy Marie availed herself of the privilege, and slipped into her place beside Eveley.

"If you suffer in the night, please ask me to help you," she begged. "I will not sleep, but I do not wish to speak until I know you are awake."

"You must sleep," said Eveley.

But Marie did not sleep. Sometimes Eveley would moan a little, turning heavily, and then, without a sound, Marie was out of bed, replacing the bandages with fresh ones, crooning softly over Eveley as a mother over a suffering child.

Fortunately the next day was Sunday, and Eveley remained quietly on a couch, with Marie waiting upon her like a tender Madonna. Nolan came up, too, and insisted upon the full story of what had happened.

"I fell," said Eveley positively.

"You did not fall on your shoulder-blades," he said. "You girls have been up to some monkey business, and I want to know."

After long insistence, Eveley told him of the night's adventure, Marie sitting erect and rigid during the recital.

"Where did you go, Marie?" he asked, in deep concern.

"I went too far," she confessed regretfully. "But it was an exquisite night, and I was happy. I went down farther and farther, and did not realize it. Suddenly I looked up, and knew I was far, far down. I turned at once.--Then some one called. A man's voice. I ran, and the steps came pounding after me."

"You must not go into the canyon at night again, please, Marie. You are too young. And--the canyon goes away down to the water-front where there are a lot of Greasers and--I mean, half-breeds," he stammered quickly, "all kinds of foreigners along the road down there! You must stay on top of your canyon and be good."

The next morning, although Eveley knew her arms were too stiff and sore for work, she decided to go to the office anyhow to see the day well started.

"They will send me home, and I shall be here for luncheon with you. I can not drive yet, so I'll just cross the bridge and go on the street-car."

As she stood on the swinging bridge, looking down into the lovely canyon, it seemed impossible that there in the friendly shadows such horrible dangers had menaced them. Of a sudden impulse, she ran back, and climbed carefully down to where she had clung so grimly to the tangled vines and had knocked Marie's a.s.sailant from the path.

No, it was no dream. The vines were torn and mangled and on the path were the marks of trampling feet, and peering down the canyon she could discern two distinct trails where the men had tumbled and reeled. She slowly followed the trails, picking her way carefully, clinging to bits of shrub. Her lips curved into a grim smile as she pictured their surprise and pain. At the foot of the canyon she saw something shining among the rocks.

She lifted it curiously, and turned it in her hand. It was clean and shining,--a small steel badge marked Secret Service.

Eveley's eyes clouded, and her brows took on a troubled frown, as she put the badge carefully into her purse.

"I shall never tell Marie," she said. "It would not help much with the Americanization of a sweet and trusting foreign girl to know she had been followed at night by a steel badge marked Secret Service."

And Eveley followed the path back to the bridge again with a grieved and troubled air.

CHAPTER XVII

SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION

As the weeks pa.s.sed, Eveley noticed a change in the conduct of the honeymoon home beneath her. Many times in the early morning, she saw Mrs.

Severs going out with a covered basket and wearing an old long coat and a tight-fitting small hat. And sometimes she met her in the evening, coming home, dusty, tired and happy.

"I am going to father's," she would explain lightly. Or, "I have been out with father to-day."

And at the quizzical laughter in Eveley's eyes, she would add defiantly: "He is a darling, Eveley, and I was very silly. Why didn't you bring me to my senses?"

For Mrs. Severs was feeling less well than usual, and in the long absence of her husband every day, she was learning to depend on the brusk, kindly, capable father-in-law. And many days, when she was not well enough to leave home, he came himself, and the girls up-stairs could hear him in the kitchen below, preparing dinner for Andy and his ailing bride.

"Whatever should I do without him, Miss Ainsworth?" she sometimes asked.

"He does everything for me. And I think he likes me pretty well, now he is getting used to me. He is good to me,--his little funny ways are not really funny any more, but rather sweet. I spoiled everything with my selfishness, and he will never try to live with us again."

One evening, when Father-in-law had been particularly tender and helpful, she looked at Eveley with brooding eyes, and said, "You are such a nice girl, but I sort of blame you because father is not with us. You are so much cleverer than I,--couldn't you have opened my eyes before it was too late?"

And Eveley ran up the stairs shaking her slender fists in the air.

"Deliver me from brides," she said devoutly to the rose in the corner of her roof garden. "Grooms are bad enough, but brides are utterly impossible. I would not live with one for anything on earth. To think of the wretched life they were living until I helped them to a proper adjustment,--and now she holds me responsible. I always said Father-in-law was the most desirable member of the family."