A band, somewhere, playing a pulsing Spanish air, brought her to her feet.

She went to the window and looked out, and saw that the street lay cool and sunless with the coming of dusk.
From the American customhouse just on the opposite corner came Lite Avery, stalking leisurely along in his high-heeled riding-boots.

Jean drew back with a little flutter of the pulse and watched him, wondering how he came to be in Nogales.

She had last seen him boarding a car that would take him out to the Great Western Studio; and now, here he was, sauntering across the street as if he lived here.

It was like finding his bed up in the loft and knowing all at once that he had been keeping watch all the while, thinking of her welfare and never giving her the least hint of it.