"I told you to keep away from that girl." "Humph!" Glass spoke with soulful conviction. "Take it from me, Bo, I'll walk around her as if she was a lake. Who'd ever think that chorus-man was a killer?" "Surely you don't care for her seriously?" "Not now. I--I love my Cuban, but"--he quivered apprehensively-- "I'll bet that rummy packs a 'shiv' in every pocket." From outside the bunk-house came the low, musical notes of a quail, and Glass puckered his lips to answer, then grew pale. "That's her," he declared, in a panic. "I've got a date with her." "Are you going to keep it?" "Not for a nose-bag full of gold nuggets! Take a look, Wally, and see what she's doing." Speed did as directed. "She's waiting." "Let her wait," breathed the trainer. "Here comes Stover and Willie." "More bad news." Glass unrolled his prayer-rug, and stepped upon it hastily. "Say, what's that word? Quick! You know! The password. Quick!" "Allah!" "That's her!" The fat man began to mumble thickly. It was plain that his spirit was utterly broken. But this call was prompted purely by solicitude, it seemed. Willie had little to say, and Stover, ignoring all mention of the earlier encounter he had witnessed, exclaimed: "There's been some queer goin's-on 'round here, Mr. Speed. Have you noticed 'em?" "No. What sort?" "Well, the other mornin' I discovered some tracks through one of Miss Jean's flower-beds." "Tracks!" "Sure! Strange tracks. Man's tracks."