Everybody appears to
have known him and loved him."
"One has to die before his virtues are apparent to some people," Farrel
murmured philosophically. "And now that Don Mike Farrel is dead, you
hope to acquire Panchito, eh?"
"I'll be broken-hearted if I cannot."
"He'll cost you a lot of money."
"He's worth a lot of money."
He gazed at her very solemnly.
"I am aware that what I am about to say is but poor return for your
sweet courtesy, but I feel that you might as well begin now to abandon
all hope of ever owning Panchito."
"Why?"
"I--I hate to tell you this, but the fact is--I'm going to acquire him."
She shook, her head and smiled at him--the superior smile of one quite
conscious of her strength.
"He is to be sold at public auction," she informed him. "And the man
who outbids me for that horse will have to mortgage his ranch and
borrow money on his Liberty Bonds."
"We shall see that which we shall see," he returned, enigmatically.
"Waiter, bring me my check, please."
While the waiter was counting out the change from a twenty-dollar bill,
Farrel resumed his conversation with the girl.
"Do you plan to remain in the San Gregorio very long?"
"All summer, I think."
He rose from his chair and bowed to her with an Old-World courtliness.
"Once more I thank you for your kindness to me, _senorita_," he said.
"It is a debt that I shall always remember--and rejoice because I can
never repay it.
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